A Leo Valdez one shot, inspired by Let It Go parody, “Let ‘Em Burn” sung by Morgan O'Brien.

It’s quite a bit darker than my other ones, but I hope you enjoy it nonetheless, as I enjoyed writing it.

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Scraps of metal and shredded paper adorned the floor around him as he crouched with his head between his knees, his hands pulling at his hair violently. Only the sound of his incoherent moans could be heard echoing through the endless passage of the bunker and bouncing back to greet him.

Weeks of isolation had taken its toll. Countless equally useful and useless invention were strewn across the stone floor, the workshop utterly desolated; the result of a deranged rampage.

Fingers running through a mop of curly hair, long and twisted, grimy and sticky with oil. Fighting a losing battle against insanity, consciousness and reason slipping, vengeance and rage expanding within his chest like a hot air balloon.

A kindly face flashed beneath closed eyelids; uneven brown hair, eyes that caught light and changed colour. Another accompanied it; electric blue and short blonde, a face stony yet gentle.

Who were they? Were they friends, or enemies?

Sweeping a hand across the floor, scattering the remnants of a machine, once impressive in its functions and grandeur, he let out a heart wrenching screech. It boiled inside him, a note of complete and utter misery; emotion turned sound.

Thoughts were mystifying. The difference between dreams and reality was no longer distinguishable. Some nights, the two figures guided him through a darkening maze or pulled him over a rock ledge from which he would’ve else fallen from. Other nights, they were the voices that taunted and confused him, leading him closer to his doom, or the ones that stomped on his hand and made him relinquish his grip on the ledge.  

Which was the truth and which was the nightmare? Were they both imaginings, conjured by  insanity and lack of human presence? Did the two beings exist at all?

Yes. There was a camp. They were there. He was there. Just through the woods.

He lived there once, before he retired to the workshop amongst the foliage, accessible only by his fiery touch. Hadn’t he been alone for an age? They had turned on him.

He found himself wondering if this life was really worth living; was the pain and misery and confusion worth anything at all? Would death be a kinder fate? No, he found himself answering, I will not give up, but I’m giving in to my darker side.

He lifted his eyes to stare at the crimson crisscrossed over his skin, sickly pale under the one luminous light far above, shining a single spotlight down on where he crouched. Tiny metal chips embedded in his flesh glistened under the harsh white light.

Lowering his hands, he lifted his head. Under a dark, unruly mop, darker eyes glittered, bright and cold with insanity. Inside his chest, beneath the layers of machinery that ticked and whirred, a black soul shifted, changed from the bright life that once inhabited the now broken form. Madness was all that remained, aside a desire of a purpose, a desire for revenge.

Taking heart in that one resolve, he stood. Clothes that had fitted him a few weeks previously now hung loosely off his thin frame. His hair had grown out, dark and wild like a forbidding jungle. No sign of the boy he once was showed in his face; hard, emotionless, unforgiving.

Fire ignited in his palms, the bright orange flames throwing an unfriendly shadow across the machine parts arraying the workshop, like monsters stalking the night. A ghastly light cast across his face, kindling a furious spark in his eyes that would’ve frightened all who beheld him.

This was not the image of a man gripped by sanity. This was the image of a madman.

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Under the shade of a shadowed tree, in the dead of night, with a large, sealed container tucked neatly under his arm, he watched the final lights flickering inside the cabins go out, one by one. He reassured himself that they wouldn’t be out for long, and he would relish in the cries that followed.

When the darkness was silent and complete, he ventured further into the camp. Upon opening the container, he began his circle around the cabins, pouring the contents as he went.

He stepped lightly, not making a sound. The gloom concealed his every move as he continued his ominous task, a cruel, gleeful spark in his eyes the only thing that lightened the darkness around. His circular motion snaked around the omega shape of the cabins, trailing the contents onto the ground in excess.

No sane thought crossed his mind as he finished his mission, condemning countless to fates of pain and misery. Tossing the now empty container aside, he brushed his grimy hands against his stained jeans in a fruitless attempt to clean them. The simple, normal gesture nearly brought a burst of laughter forward with his psychotic mission lingering in his mind.

The nearest cabin was adorned with pearly white trestles, blooming with flowers of every kind; roses, lilies, honeysuckle, sunflowers, poppies. Even shrouded in darkness, they oozed life and bliss.

Screwing up his face, he grabbed ahold of the closest trestle and began to climb silently, not caring for the plants he trod on, or the rickety wooden structure that bent beneath him. Reaching the top, he walked to the edge and observed the peaceful tranquility of the camp. His loose clothes shifted on him as a gentle breeze blew through, restoring a calm atmosphere to him.

A twisted smile appeared on his face as he contemplated how long the calm before the storm would last. Walking back his makeshift ladder, he peered over the side where he knew his trail was, despite not being able to see it through the gloom.

Clicking the fingers on his right hand, a single flame ignited his finger like a miniature inferno. Instinct told him what to do, and he let his hand hover high over the trail, pointed down. A few seconds later, the flame dropped from his finger like a burning teardrop.

The moment it touched the oil trail, everything was alight.

Fire raced around the line he’d leaked around the cabins, encircling them in a death trap. It was another few seconds before the first screams filled the air.

He laughed maliciously and relished in the frightened cries that penetrated the night as fire licked at the silver moon, full in the dark sky like the night had been made for his pitiless deed.

The moment the first camper appeared – a silhouetted figure bursting forth from the overcrowded, run down cabin – he lit up his hand with a scorching fireball and lobbed it at the door. Terrified shrieks emitted from within as their only way out was blocked by a raging inferno.

Other doors opened and campers came streaming out, confused and afraid as fire consumed the cabins. Laughing cruelly, he filled his palms with flames and aimed all around, raining merciless blazes down on the teenagers. He watched with sadistic glee as a young girl, barely eight summers, was knocked over by a blast that nearly landed on top of her. She screamed as all up her back was badly burnt by the fire.

He moved closer to the edge so as to enjoy the light show better. Chaos arose, to his mad delight.

In the light of the firestorm, the unhinged and vicious spark danced in his dark eyes, the fire reflected violently as tortured screams enveloped him. This kingdom of ash and cinders which he ruled with an manic, crazed mind. His psychotic smile grew wider as mayhem ensured. His figure, silhouetted in flames against the dark backdrop, stood tall and proud atop the cabin roof.

An arrow shot past his head.

His gaze snapped to a camper below as he knocked another arrow and took aim. With an unintelligible yell, the camper fired again, but missed as he stepped back and disappeared into the gloom. Generating a ball of fire, he threw it at the young boy below and he went up in flames, howling in utter agony. But his shout had not gone unnoticed.

Several other campers took up positions with their bows, further from his perch where he was visible to them. As he watched his vengeance reign, they fell under his radar and they let their arrows fly.

The first struck his thigh, the second his side, and the third his chest. He fell silently, tumbling from the rooftop and into the inferno. But his body, immune to the flames, did not burn.

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When they retrieved him, hours later, the insane cruelty had vanished from his eyes, replaced with a dull light, a shadow of the brightness that once inhabited the boy.

Two campers were by his side; the figures from his nightmares. The girl pulled his head into her lap, stroking his cold face gently as tears pooled in her kaleidoscope eyes. The blonde boy knelt beside her, his head buried in her hair while in his heart was an ache that promised never to end.

The boy had been driven to insanity, spending weeks alone inside the bunker, rejected of human company as his only friends discarded him as a third wheel. In a fit of hysteria, he’d sought revenge and had paid the price.

The girl and boy remained by his side throughout the remainder of the senseless night. The boy persisted to be a reminder on what the company of each other had cost. His death would forever weigh on their conscience and haunt them through the years.

As the shining moon, whole in all its luminosity, gave way to the sunrise, a new day dawned; a sad day. The sun glowed bright orange, like the fire and life that had drained from the boy on the ground had been imbued into the rising star, for him to eternally light the way to those below.

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