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All his life, Dirk had known he was not normal.
Not a single memory of life before the realization had stuck with him through adulthood. There might not even have been any to bring with him, truthfully. The earliest memory he could still recall was from when he was maybe three or four, and he found the corpse of a squirrel in his backyard. One of his neighbors approached to bother him, and he kicked the corpse and the stick he'd been poking it with into a bush.
Others find blood and rot upsetting and wish to avoid it. Others enjoy spending time mingling amongst themselves more than they enjoy spending time with the dead bodies of animals. Others call themselves human.
I am only human, they'd say– an idiom expressing how mistakes are in their nature, yet they'd treat it like a source of pride. We are all human here, someone would say to a crowd, and the audience would cheer at whatever meaning they came up with.
We are all human here.
Such a simple sentence made Dirk think many things, but he did not speak them aloud.
To speak up would be rude, weird, alien. To be alien was to be shunned. And though Dirk did not too terribly mind the thought of being cast away from society, leaving him with only the company of blood and bones… If he put on a smile and said thank you sir, he'd be praised, admired, given everything he asked for because he was just such a sweet girl. He'd be trusted.
It was a stupid game humans played, but if he didn't play along, he wouldn't win. So Dirk donned a mask and put that wild thing in him on a leash, only to be released in the company of no one but blood and bones.
One day– amidst all the useless memories Dirk had discarded without a second thought, this one still stuck with him. One day, when Dirk had just freshly crossed the bridge from child to teenager, his classmates at his school were pestering a girl in the back of the classroom.
They'd demand her to draw them for some unknowable reason, and, not wanting to put up a fight, she'd quietly put her pen to paper for a moment or two, then present whoever she wanted to get rid of the quickest with a sketch of their face. They'd snatch the paper from her and grin, beaming, it's me! It looks just like me!
They were delinquents. The person Dirk pretended to be was not a bully. But other than the poor girl's, Dirk's desk was the only one still seated, and that wasn't any way of blending in– and, secretly, he wondered what all the fuss was about. So, he stood up, walked over, leaned down with the sweetest smile his mask could wear, and asked her to draw him.
She looked at him for a moment, and Dirk was almost worried his mask slipped– but then she got to work, and after a minute or so of the scratching of pencil against paper, she set her pencil down and presented her work to him.
It was a drawing of a girl with thick eyebrows and a big nose. Her long hair rested on her shoulders, messy in random places that never felt like cooperating. Her eyes and her smile were a little too wide, piercing, staring like a predator watching its prey. Her head was tilted slightly, curious. Her gaze met Dirk's.
Immediately, Dirk knew that was not him.
It was what humans saw when they looked at him. It was what he saw when he looked in the mirror. But it was not him. Maybe a part of him was hoping she'd see him under the mask and skin and flesh, see whatever he really was, but it was stupid to believe any human ever could. They would only see… that.
That wasn't him. It was– It was the suit of flesh he piloted, the corpse he was stuck in, it was a body but it wasn't his, it wasn't him, it wasn't–
Dirk said thank you, but he did not bring the drawing with him when he left the room.
That evening, when Dirk got home, he went into the bathroom, locked the door, and looked into the mirror.
The girl in the drawing looked back at him. Messy brown hair that rested on his shoulders. A nice little dress his mother got for him. His shaking hands clutching the sink. Thick eyebrows, a big nose, a fold of chub under his chin that appeared when he tilted his head down. Blue eyes.
That was not him. That was the polite little girl next door. That was the human corpse his consciousness was stuck in.
Who was he, then?
Dirk was… Dirk was not a human, obviously. He might not have even been a girl. He was… He…
He had brown fur. Yes, brown fur, just a little lighter than the color of his hair. His pelt was short and coarse, unkempt like a wild animal instead of neat like a pet. He had no markings other than a white blaze on his chest and on the tip of his scraggly tail. His paw pads were dark and rough, and his claws light and dull. His right ear flopped over his head, and his left ear pointed upright.
His eyes were blue and a little too wide, sclera showing just a little too much. His muzzle was thick and his nose was shiny. His tongue stuck out as he panted. His mouth was lined with sharp teeth, built for tearing, for killing, made for nothing but to be drenched with blood.
A leather collar was secure around his neck. It was not a sign that someone owned him– the thought almost made him bare his teeth in a snarl– rather, it was a sign that… he was pampered, maybe? That he made someone think he was worthy of such things. That he was innocent. That he could be trusted. That it was safe to be in their home.
When he was bored with whoever took him in, he'd sink his teeth into their throat, then run out the door whining and begging. A poor beast who'd done no wrong, he'd claim to be– Naught but a lonely lucern who needed someone to care for him again in the wake of his owner's terrible accident. And they'd trust him, and they'd buckle a new collar around his throat, and wash the blood off his face, and when he once again had enough, he would kill them.
Incisors and canines hooking his prey so they could not run. Dull claws raking the skin so harshly, flecks of blood sputtered into the air. Sweet crimson paint coating his jaws, his teeth, warm with the thrum of a now dead heartbeat.
How stupid it would be, for a human to think he was safe, when he was a hunter.
A predator.
An animal.
Dirk blinked. He remembered his hands clutching the sink. His hair on his shoulders, the fabric of his clothes against his skin.
It occurred to him, then, that this was bigger than simply being outcast. If his mask ever fell, and the world saw his teeth, he would follow in the footsteps of whatever victim he coated his jaws with. It was him, but if anyone ever looked past the polite little girl and saw his true self, all teeth and bloodlust, they wouldn't be able to see past the human body he was stuck in and excuse him as just being an animal.
So, that wild thing in him that Dirk had only put on a leash… He forced it into a cage, too small for it to bite. It would never sink its jaws into prey, would never lick blood off its jowls. He would dream of it. He would long for the feeling of a heart stopping under his paws. But if he chased it, it would kill him.
Dirk left the bathroom. He did not meet his reflection's eyes again.
That beast didn't move from its cage for a long time. Dirk did not let himself stalk after death. He did not stare at the bodies of dead animals and dream of fading heartbeats. He would tell lies about being a human being, and they'd be the only lies he ever told that made his insides writhe like he said something wrong.
Then, one spring night a few years later, when Dirk had just freshly crossed the bridge from teenager to adult, he sat beside his mother's deathbed.
The lights were dimmed, windows opened as she'd asked. Dirk held his mother's hand, not out of remorse or sadness or whatever a human would be feeling now, but because that was what humans did. A human would be mourning the death of one of their own, but Dirk met her eyes and felt nothing.
His mother's breaths rattled in her chest. Each one was longer, slower, but she had been sick a long time, and she could not keep death waiting any more. Dirk watched his mother take her final breath, then… she stopped moving.
And–
And the way her eyes dimmed, and the life in them faded, and her body turned cold and her hand holding his went limp– In all his dreams of blood and death and the thrill of the hunt, he'd never imagined it'd be so– So–!
The visual haunted him. He stood at his mother's funeral and thought about the life leaving her eyes. His neighbors would give him their condolences and he wondered what their corpses would look like. Their pulses stopping, bodies going cold, throats torn open and entrails on the floor.
The beast banged against its cage. Something in him howled. His thoughts were clouded with blood and teeth and death and teeth and fading heartbeats, crimson pools, flesh and bones and death and death and death.
He had to see it again.
He had to see it again.
For a moment, he saw only red.
Blood coated his teeth. His claws dug into flesh. His prey went limp under his hold. With its neck snapped between his jaws, its panicked struggling slowed and stopped. The body hit the floor with a wet thud.
He watched its eyes dim. It was beautiful. It was beautiful.
He howled.
He remembered the wind roaring outside. The kitchen knife in his hand. The corpse of his father on the ground, killed in his own home in the middle of the night. His laugh, manic, wild, relieved.
It was foolish to believe Dirk could hide from himself. He could try and bury himself under mask after mask, not letting himself breathe in even solitude lest that be all needed for someone to see him, but… He was a predator. And if a predator did not hunt, it would die.
So, when the joy had flushed his system and he got bored of sitting with a cold corpse, Dirk cut his hair with a pair of stolen scissors, nabbed his favorite ratty cloak, his shiniest knife, and some clothes that felt like his, and fled.
If he was caught, they would kill him, but Dirk had paws built for sprinting miles, faster than any stupid human could ever hope to run. He'd spread bloodshed wherever he went and no one would ever suspect him.
Trust was a stupid, foolish thing, wasn't it?
—
Dirk traveled for quite a while before settling where he was now. He hopped from place to place, each time introducing himself with a new name. He'd pause a moment to take up an odd job or don his mask, and when he had enough, he'd let the beast out of its cage, bathe in bloodshed, and flee again.
It was nice, for every person to be a passerby and nothing more. He didn't have to build relationships that lasted longer than a few days, didn't have to deal with anyone remembering his face. Trust was fleeting, swiftly broken, and before he could suffer the consequences, he was gone. For the most part, his only company was forests and meadows and plains, critters too stupid to run when he approached, his favorite knives and his flowing cloak.
The solitude made some part of him itch, but mostly, he was nothing but grateful.
His cage was a little bigger now. He'd feed his inner beast with spilled blood and fang-sharp daggers and come-and-go strangers who called him sir. In solitude he'd let himself be himself, and he'd wander down dusty roads the sunrise after rain with his hood down, basking in the morning dew soaking his whiskers.
But then Dirk would look down at the ground and the prints he left in the mud would be the wrong shape, and suddenly his skeleton was wrong, his muscles didn't move right, his teeth were too dull and his nose was too short and–
When his cage felt too small, he would kill. But he'd be all too aware of the fact that it was done with shiny knives instead of claws and teeth.
He could inch a little closer towards feeling like himself. Keep his hair the same length as his fur, pretend he was hiding a scrawny tail and one floppy ear under his cloak, kill and kill and kill until he forgot the eyes he was watching his victims die with were attached to a body.
But he could not escape the prison that was the corpse his consciousness was stuck in.
Once, in some strange spot in time where it had been a few years since he started traveling and a few years until he'd stop, Dirk stumbled upon a little shop. The shelves were lined with trinkets made of leather and metals. Dirk didn't care to waste his time on any cow skin, but the thought of finding a lovely new dagger to add to his collection made him step inside.
A bell at the door jingled and Dirk was forced to trade polite pleasantries with the nobody at the front desk. As soon as the exchange was over, Dirk scoured around for any sharp and shiny blades, but he found only meaningless nothings like gloves and charms. A waste of time after all.
Dirk turned back to the door, but something caught his eye.
It was a collar, spun with blue leather and adorned with a sparkling silver buckle. The tag was shaped like a cutesy bone, blank space on the center left for a name.
Dirk picked it up. He ran his finger back and forth against the ridge and decided he liked how it felt on his skin. He wondered how it'd feel against his fur. It looked a good size to fit around the neck of his prison, didn't it?
To hear the tag jingle as he moved and stain the cute little tag with red… Would it help him pretend his mind matched his body? Would he feel…
Dirk went up to the nobody at the front desk and bought the collar. The nobody asked him if he'd like to have a name etched onto the tag.
And he…
Dirk was not the name he introduced himself to the people of this village with. He'd never told anyone, anywhere, that Dirk was his name. He liked how it sounded, quick, one syllable, with a soft beginning and a sharp end. The name itself even came from a kind of knife. It felt like him.
But, until he decided to choose some place to move into, he could not keep one name. If some town managed to trace his trail back to him, and their authorities started shouting to everyone they knew to be on the lookout for a person named Terry or Dexter or Lance, well– That wasn't his name, was it? And how could you accuse him? There were plenty of people out there who matched the descriptor of a shorter, chubbier fellow with brown hair and piercing blue eyes.
So, his name was just another part of his mask. To the world, he was a polite, charming human being with a name he never bothered to remember– a sweet, innocent soul who could never hurt a fly.
But to him, to him and him only…
Quietly, he said to the human at the desk, "Yes, please. I would like the name Dirk."
The moment he left the shop, he ran. He ran until he stood on a hill in the middle of nowhere, the village far behind him, his only company the grass and the wind.
He sat down, slipped his bag off his back, and took the collar out into his hands. The leather was smooth, the silver cold. He undid the buckle and put the collar around his neck. It took him a bit of fumbling, but he fiddled until it was just tight enough, then, he buckled the collar back closed. Gently, he slid the collar around so the tag faced forward.
Dirk, said the name on the cute silver tag. A name that belonged to him and him alone– a name for the true self he hid under masks and flesh that none but the dead would ever see.
Dirk's floppy ear and the short whiskers on his chin waved with the wind. He curled his claws into the ground, dirt shifting beneath his paws. His tail wagged, heartbeating a rhythmic thump-thump-thump against the grass.
It was like his cage had opened. For as long as he inhabited this damned human body, his cage would still exist, never letting him be truly himself… but if he stood in the company of no one but blood and the breeze, and he closed his eyes and licked the blood off his teeth, maybe, maybe he could pretend he was real.
That night, Dirk went back into town and tore out someone's throat with his favorite dagger. The tag on his collar jingled as he moved. For a moment, when he looked back before he jumped out the window, he almost thought the bloody footprints he left behind were the right shape.
—
Every now and then, over the course of his travels, Dirk would hear gossip about a town called Salem.
Strangers on sidewalks would whisper to each other about that strange town. The people were kind and the authorities did their jobs well, they'd claim, but underneath the sweet exterior lied… Well, every time Dirk overheard hushed murmurs about the town, he'd hear a new secret.
Murders. Witches. Angry gods that cursed every inch of land under the Salem name. Maybe even something about time travelers and strange devices from the future. Horrific beasts of magic and evil, hiding in plain sight, disguising themselves among the innocents and the victims. When the town was peaceful, it was wonderful, but every few years or so, chaos would be wrought, lightning would strike, and bodies would litter every street.
Humans who heard these tales recoiled in horror, swearing they'd never step foot near that awful place, because humans fear blood and rot and death.
Dirk, however, thought it sounded like fun.
To get to see a new dead body every morning. To kill and face the consequences of it, seeing the shocked and sorrowful faces of every stupid upcoming victim. To lie and escape consequence, because he's just such a sweet boy, how could anyone think it was him?
No one would think it was him. He would be certain of that. He knew, sure as he knew his own paws, that he would win.
The cage rattled as the beast writhed, desperate for warm blood and carcasses. So, after a few more days of travel, a new face stalked his way into the quiet little town and introduced himself as Dirk Shanks.
(He had prepared a thousand different answers, jokes, and deflections for every comment someone could make about his chosen name, yet no one batted an eye. Stupid humans.)
It wasn't very long before Dirk got settled in. He got placed into a house that looked like it hadn't been touched in a few decades, and where a human would've minded, Dirk saw a roof that would protect him from the weather and a bed he could hide his secrets under and let that be that.
And so, his plan was set into motion. Dirk would settle himself into the town and carve himself a spot among familiar faces and trusted neighbors. When terror again struck and the town was thrown into discord… Among all the bodies, strewn about by him and by others alike…
It would be like a game. Could they find him?
Of course not, because they were human and he was not. His victory was guaranteed, but it would be fun to see how those stupid humans would try to prevent it.
The first step in Dirk's plan was to wait. So he waited.
He introduced himself to the townspeople and didn't put a single name to memory. At night, when he could finally take off his mask, he'd sit beside his bed, running his thumb over his collar's tag and twirling his dagger in his other hand, feeding his inner beast with only little scraps of bloodshed fantasies.
A few days passed, and chaos had not swept through Salem.
That was to be expected, obviously, and hoping for anything faster was useless and stupid. Dirk got a job as a bartender, because money was a necessity in human society and charisma was his only skill that wasn't innately suspicious, and he spent his days with his mask on and his nights playing with his knives.
A few weeks passed, and chaos had not swept through Salem.
This was good for him– the longer the gap between his arrival and discord striking, the lower the chance someone could try and blame him. This was good for him. When Dirk got too distracted, and forgot what conversation he was having because he was dreaming of gore and snapping teeth, he forced himself to remember that.
Dirk said hello to some sleepy stranger with amber eyes, and though he could no longer recall their name, he remembered their surprise when he said he liked it. They were quiet enough to not irritate him too terribly. He'd save their throat to be teared out last.
(He thought about tearing their throat out. He thought about their amber eyes dimming. He thought about the dirt on their face and the blood on his paws.)
A month passed, and chaos had not swept through Salem.
Every person Dirk passed by, he thought about crushing their skulls under his claws. He had to kill someone, something, but if it happened too close to this stupid town, his whole plan would fall apart. When he was alone he gnawed at his arm to try and relieve the urge to kill, but his teeth were too dull and the pain was not supposed to belong to him and he needed blood–
To rip his mask off and bare his teeth, to grab a heart into his maw and tear it out of a ribcage, to feel it stop between his jaws, feel red purpose dripping down his chin, blood, blood, blood, blood–
A month and one night passed, the moon rose, and chaos had not swept through Salem.
Dirk went into the forest just outside town.
The locals warned him not to go into the woods, because witches and monsters lurked in there who'd tear him apart if he stepped a foot inside, and he listened to them for a while, but– but if he could just find a squirrel or something, kill it, hear it scream, tear its guts open, blood on his claws, if he could feel real for just a moment–
And who cared about witches and monsters, anyway? It was just rumors, silly, stupid stories humans spun to make themselves feel. Witches were real, he knew that– he met one once, and he begged them in a desperate fit to use their magic to make him him, but they shook their head and said they didn't know any spells like that no matter who or how many he said he'd kill– Witches were real, but they were just humans who knew how to make funny sparks with their hands, fragile and stupid as any other.
If he found a witch out in the woods, maybe that was a bloodshed that could be excused. He could sink his dagger into their throat, splatter blood on his face, and then parade the corpse into town and be proclaimed a hero. He didn't care about the fame or the honor. He only wanted blood.
A branch snapped somewhere in the distance. Dirk stilled. Slowly, he unsheathed his dagger. He took a step forward.
There was something there. Breathing. A moving shadow. Dirk's claws raked the ground. He licked his fangs and growled.
From the darkness, two eyes met his. Something growled back. Dirk bared his teeth, ears pinned to his head– whatever it was, it was huge, so big it could crack his spine like it was a pen, but he needed blood–
The eyes in the dark… blinked, slowly, confused. It hid its fangs behind its lips. "What are you doing in my territory?"
"Wh–" The beast spoke, and that shock cleared some of the fog from Dirk's head just enough for him to kind of sort of remember how to make human speech. "What?"
The beast stood up then, onto two legs like a human, but it had blue-grey fur and pointed ears like a wolf. It was huge, towering and muscular, with thin scars criss-crossing along its pelt. It did not again bare its fangs, but it narrowed its eyes and folded its ears, suspicious.
"Are you newly-bitten?" asked the beast. Its voice reminded Dirk of someone from town, but he didn't bother to recall whose. "Why are you parading around another wolf's domain in human form?"
What? What was it talking about? Another wolf's? Did it think he was a–
…Oh.
"You–" Dirk swallowed– "You think I'm a wolf?"
The beast tilted its head. "Are you not? You carry yourself like a werewolf trying to remember how his human form moves. You were stalking around like you were searching for prey. You growled at me."
Oh.
Dirk giggled.
Then, openly, manically, he laughed.
"What is wrong with you?" snarled the beast. Dirk laughed harder, a strange, strangled bark of a noise.
"You really think so?" he asked. "You really, really think I'm a wolf? An animal?"
The beast snapped its teeth and stepped forward, blotting out the crescent moonlight with its shadow. "Enough with your mocking! Leave this forest!"
"Oh, no no no, I wasn't mocking you," Dirk said. He took a step back and lowered his dagger. "I just– How are you a wolf? Were you born one? Can people be turned, or is that just a silly rumor?"
The beast opened its mouth to snap again, but, hesitantly, it closed it. "I was born. But you can be turned. If you are a wolf, I will chase you out of these woods myself. If you are not, something else will."
Dirk paused.
He could be turned.
This beast seemed polite enough, warning him of danger and only snapping when it thought he was trespassing as one of its own. Dirk was certain, if he asked nicely, and held out his hand…
Brown fur, dull claws, pointy ears. Tearing every stupid human to shreds with his own sharp teeth. Blood on his jowls. Crushed bones under his paws. Entrails between his jaws.
Dirk almost said something, but…
This beast spoke and walked on two legs. This beast had front paws like hands and torn clothing around its legs. This beast lived in the woods outside a human town, and had to use human speech to warn them away.
If Dirk asked, and the beast said yes, and Dirk woke up one full moon with paws like human hands and a mouth still built for human speech, would that save him? Or would it only make him yearn more? To have a furry neck, yet too thick for his collar, to have jaws lined with sharp teeth, yet still designed for speech–
Dirk did not talk. Dirk's shoulders didn't form that shape in his silhouette, and his fur was not that thick. He did not wear clothes, or make human gestures with his paws, or walk on two legs.
To be so close, but not him. To be trapped somewhere between his mask and his true self under the light of every full moon. To be almost what he really is. To be almost– That would only make him hurt more, wouldn't it?
So, Dirk shook his head.
"You don't need to worry about me, dear friend. I am right at home here."
Dagger in hand, Dirk walked away. The beast turned to watch him go, shouted "I will not bury your carcass!" over its shoulder, and did nothing more.
The moment solitude returned to him, Dirk's head was again clouded. Ah. Of course. He'd almost forgotten what he came here for.
Dirk stalked through the woods until he found a rabbit. He crept up to it, each pawstep careful and calculated, then sank his fangs into its neck. He spent some amount of time between a few seconds and a few hours sitting beside it, watching its body turn cold, raking his claws into its skin until blood seeped through, slitting its guts open and lying organs in a neat pattern on the forest floor.
He smiled to himself the whole night, heart bleeding with the knowledge that an animal recognized him. A beast in arms looked at him and saw itself. His tail wagged, thump-thump-thump against the ground.
He would have to wait before his grand plan came into action, but he was patient. Dirk would live off bloody scraps for a while, but he would be rewarded with a game of teeth and death far greater than anything he'd ever seen.
For a moment, though he already said no, Dirk wondered what it would be like if he was a beast like that one. If they lived in a pack and they killed together. If he played this game with someone, instead of alone. If someone could see his teeth and still trust him.
But trust was stupid and foolish, so Dirk only again shook his head.
—
A few years had passed, and chaos had swept through Salem.
It was beautiful. Every night, new bodies showed up on the streets– some killed with spells, others with fangs, and the rest with shiny knives. Every night, the beast was let out of its cage. Every night– Shrieked begs for mercy, blood, a sudden stop, blood, life leaving the eyes– Blood, blood, blood–
Each lie was thrilling. To be trusted was thrilling. No one ever saw the knife behind his back, all blinded by stupid, foolish trust. He was just such a sweet boy! A gentle, innocent animal who'd never hurt a fly! Oh, the horror on their faces when he broke into their homes in the middle of the night, daggers in hand. The shock. Trust shattered in one fleeting moment, just before the wild snap of fangs around throats.
Humans were so, so stupid.
It had been maybe a couple months since the first body showed up on the street, and already, so many more were added to the graveyard. So many strangers that Dirk would never have to look at again. So many faces he watched die. Even the beast in the woods was discovered and executed– Lupin, his name was. A part of Dirk still wondered what it would've been like if he asked nicely and held out his hand, but mostly, he was glad the forest was now all his own.
Dirk had waited for this for so long. Maybe he'd even waited his whole life. A chance to slip off that mask, just the tiniest bit, and let one rotting corner of the world see the animal he really was.
…
One day, perhaps a week or two before the witches began their attacks, Dirk had a conversation with someone at the tavern he worked at.
The sleepy stranger with the amber eyes shuffled through the door, just a few minutes before closing, and sat down at a table. Their eyes were hazy with something Dirk did not recognize. Dirk shot a questioning glance at his boss (whose body now lied in the graveyard, good riddance), and, in response to the nod she gave him, Dirk walked up to the stranger's table.
Dirk opened his mouth to say something about no soliciting or we're closing soon, but then the stranger looked up at him, and…
"It's you," they said. The haze in their eyes softened.
Their tone was flat, matching the deadpan-or-just-dead expression they always seemed to wear, and their voice was raspy like something was wrong with their lungs. Yet, something about the way they looked at him, something about the way that rasp curled around their words…
It felt… soft.
Despite himself, Dirk sat down across from the curious stranger with amber eyes.
They said, quietly, that they still remembered how he said he liked their name.
Dirk remembered it now. Their name was Firebug.
Firebug spent a gentle few minutes telling Dirk about their name. They had another one once, but it was not theirs anymore. Not since that day, a long time ago, when the witches last attacked.
They were somewhere between a child and a teenager when it happened. That day, a witch had been dragged onto the stand in the center of town, set to be executed in front of every townsperson's eyes for her crimes. In a desperate attempt to save one of his own, another witch retaliated.
Firebug spoke of the flames that enveloped the town. They spoke of embers dancing in the sky. They spoke of warm light. They spoke of buildings crumbling and falling. They spoke of the smell of smog and smoke.
Firebug was once a nickname, because after that day, people noticed how they'd stare at lanterns and fireplaces with burning eyes– and as Dirk watched them speak about embers and lights, he realized he didn't have to imagine what those burning eyes must look like. When their previous name did not feel like theirs anymore, and the person they were before that day felt like someone else, they took Firebug as their own.
The flames were their everything, they said, whisper-quiet. At that moment, the burning thing in their eyes faltered, and they lifted their gaze to meet Dirk's.
"Do you have something like that?" they asked. "Your own flames? The reason you're here? Your drive?"
Dirk thought about blood and claws and teeth and death.
Before his mask could slip, it was closing time. Dirk ushered Firebug out the door. For a moment, they paused in the doorway, and Firebug met Dirk's eyes again.
He did not know exactly what, but Dirk knew, sure as he knew his own paws, that Firebug saw something in him that no one else did.
Dirk wondered why they told him such things. Why did they think he wouldn't tell anyone about the way they spoke of buildings falling and bodies blazing with that burning fire in their eyes?
Trust was a stupid, foolish thing.
Dirk did not see Firebug again until chaos swept through Salem and the town was soaked with blood.
He did not see them until, one night, when Dirk was out hunting for his next victim. Amidst all the creeping shadowed figures in the night, he saw Firebug make a circle around someone's house with a can of gasoline. They met each other's eyes, and neither of them said a thing.
Another night, some time after that, when Firebug was on their way home from another excursion, they saw a front door left ever-so-slightly open. Curiosity took hold of them, so, quiet and careful, Firebug stepped inside.
Inside, they saw Dirk.
Dirk, teeth bared, with his jaws clamped around someone's neck and blood soaking his paws.
Dirk pounced, as a threatened animal should.
With his teeth around Firebug's throat, all he'd have to do would be to press down and tear, and his victory would remain assured.
Firebug promised him they wouldn't tell a soul. They saw every inch of his fangs and did not flinch. They looked at his bloodsoaked claws with something gentle in their amber eyes. They told lies about him being lonely.
He should have killed them then.
But he did not.
They would be too good of an ally, Dirk told himself. They were smart and clever and did not fear death when it stared them in the eyes.
To trust was stupid and foolish, but Dirk let them go.
After that night, every now and then, Firebug would approach Dirk during the day. They'd tell a joke about knives and Dirk would have to hide his laughter under his hood. They'd come up to stand next to him, and the only word they'd utter would be the occasional smirk shot his way. They'd do nothing but look at him from afar with those burning amber eyes.
During the night, neither of them sought each other out. But sometimes, their paths would cross, and they'd see each other with faces doused in black and red, and neither of them would say a thing.
After a while, Dirk started to seek out Firebug of his own accord. Humans were disgusting, stupid, worthless toys, he knew that, but Firebug was funny, and quiet, and he liked their raspy laugh, and their fire, and their amber eyes.
Their raspy laugh. Their fire. Their pretty amber eyes.
Dirk realized, very suddenly, that he had fallen in love.
Humans liked spending time with each other. Humans searched for their favorite playmate when they were bored or lonely. Humans fell in love.
How could this be happening? Dirk was not supposed to feel these things. Had he spent too much time side-by-side with a human, and now it was destroying him? Had he lost himself in those pretty amber eyes, and now he was losing himself?
What had they done to him? If he let himself get too close, would he become one of their own? No longer the mastermind, but another toy in humanity's stupid game? His paws, his tail, his teeth, his bloodlust– He'd already fallen so far, what else would he lose if he fell farther?
Firebug was ruining him. He had to kill them, to save himself, but they'd poisoned him so deeply the thought of his fangs around their throat and their amber eyes dimming made his stomach turn. Was this what it meant when humans said they were lovesick? What had they done to him?
Dirk tried to run. He tried to keep his head down and look away until he again forgot their name and forgot what it meant. He tried to forget, forget their laugh, their fire, their eyes, their smile, their trust, so that he could sink his teeth into Firebug's neck and feel nothing but blood and joy.
But, Firebug was smart and observant (and they had pretty eyes), and they did not fail to notice that something was wrong. So, one night, Firebug chased Dirk until he could not run.
Dirk pulled his lips back and bared his teeth, but his tail was tucked between his legs.
Dirk told Firebug he'd fallen in love with a human. A toy. He was not supposed to feel this, how could he be feeling this, what had they done to him– He screamed, chest heaving, begged them to let him forget, let him be an animal again, please–
Firebug only took his paws into their hands, and told him that to love was not only human. Dirk loved his knives, and he loved death, so he could love them, couldn't he?
Dirk did not answer.
Firebug took his paws into their hands and asked if it was that he could not fall in love, or if it was that he could not fall in love with a human.
Dirk did not answer.
Firebug took his paws into their hands and said that they related to him when he spoke of how humans were toys. How he was not human. How humans were other.
Firebug said, very softly, that they were not human either.
At first, Dirk thought it was a blatant lie. But then he thought about how smart they were. How they saw him covered in death and they did not run. How he hated the company of anyone else, but standing beside them was like standing with one of his own.
Trust was a stupid, foolish thing, but Dirk answered.
He asked what it would mean for them both, together, if Dirk loved Firebug and they were not human, and if Firebug loved Dirk and he was not human.
Firebug only asked what he wanted it to mean.
So, Dirk pressed his pointed nose to Firebug's forehead.
Firebug kissed Dirk's paw. Dirk giggled. His tail thump-thump-thumped against the ground.
The following night, Dirk took his mask off in front of someone for the very first time. Dirk left to find someone to kill, and Firebug followed after him.
They watched him force a window open with the point of his dagger. They watched him stalk through the house, quiet as death, and each footstep matched his. They watched him knock a chair over, then hid with him in the shadows. They watched, as Dirk's poor victim entered the scene, and Dirk did not hesitate a moment before he opened his cage.
He sank his fangs into his victim's flesh. He raked his claws into his prey's shoulders. He held the struggling body between his jaws until it stopped moving. He let the blood drip down from his chin. He watched life leave the eyes.
Dirk howled.
When he remembered his company, he stood, tail wagging, and asked if Firebug liked the show.
Firebug looked at him. The blood on his pelt, on his claws, on his teeth. His wagging tail. The feral glint in his eyes.
Humans feared rot and death. Humans enjoyed mingling amongst themselves instead of sitting with the corpses of dead animals. If a human was looking at him now, they would run, or scream, or kill him themselves.
But, one rotting corner of the world saw the animal he really was.
And they said he was beautiful.
—
After that night, every now and then, maybe every handful of days, Dirk would knock on Firebug's window in the middle of the night, and always, without question, they'd open the window and let him inside.
If Dirk's most recent victim was too far from his home and the chance of someone catching him was higher than he liked, or if he snagged his cloak on something and didn't want to wait longer than he had to to patch it up, or for some other reason he was still too something-or-other to admit to himself, he'd show up at their window with a wide smile and blood on his face, and they would let him in, always, without a word.
Sometimes Firebug would head right back to sleep after letting Dirk in, and Dirk would do whatever he needed in simultaneous solitude and company. Other times, they'd sit beside him and watch him sew his cloak back together, or talk with him about nothing while he cleaned his knives. And maybe, once in a while, Dirk would slip into their bedroom while they slept, nestle himself into the darkest corner, and watch the shifting shadows outside with his dagger in hand like a hound with a spiked collar.
Every now and then, maybe every handful of days, Firebug would knock on Dirk's window, at any time from late in the afternoon to in the middle of the night, and always, mostly without question, he'd open the window and let them inside.
Firebug never had any logical, factual reasons for crawling up to him, whether in evening light or in the dark. They would simply show up at his window, tired eyes shining, and he would let them in. Whenever Dirk asked, Firebug would say something about missing him, or wanting to talk to him, or heavens forbid something about Dirk's soft, squishy cheeks, and eventually he learned to stop asking.
Sometimes Firebug would come in for the sole purpose of stealing Dirk's bed, and Dirk would be forced to go about his evening a little quieter. Other times, Dirk would sit beside them and watch them try to fix a dent in their gas can, or talk with them about nothing while they watched fireflies flitter around outside. And maybe, once in a while, Firebug would decide they wanted to brush Dirk's hair.
Over time, they both knew each other's homes like they knew their own. Dirk knew and loved that fireplace that had scorch marks around it and a thick cloud of dust atop it. Firebug knew and loved the framed painting on the wall that displayed a wolf chasing a rabbit. Dirk knew that Firebug did not hide any secrets under their bed, and Firebug knew that Dirk put his hairbrush in the drawer by his nightstand.
So, every once in a while, Firebug would decide Dirk's hair was so messy it bothered them (even though Dirk definitely spent a normal amount of time each morning trying to avoid looking into the mirror so he could ignore everything that was wrong), and when they decided that, they would fish Dirk's brush out from that little drawer, set him down on his bed, and brush his hair.
The thought of a human touching him like this made Dirk's skin crawl. Every time he wore his mask and had to force himself to shake hands with some faceless stranger, he spent hours rubbing at the violated skin to stop himself from ripping off his own paws.
But, Firebug was not human. Their touch did not burn. Their hands were cold and calloused. Their arm wrapped around him was gentle.
If a human touched him like this, held him like this, their body would be on the floor. But Firebug was not human, so in their hold, he felt…
Sleepy? Loved? Safe? Dirk was not sure, but it was warm and made his tail wag, so he didn't feel the need to think about it any more.
Sometimes, while Firebug brushed his hair, Dirk thought about Firebug brushing his fur. He thought about Firebug washing the blood off his jowls. He thought about them clipping his claws, still keeping them dull. He thought about them kissing his forehead when they were done, and them buckling his collar back around his neck.
If his body matched his self, and a human treated him like this, it would be because he lied. He made them think he was innocent and made them think his fangs would never pierce their skin. But Firebug was not human, and they knew every inch of his teeth, and still they brushed his fur and held his cheeks because…
Because their reflection had something wild in their eyes like him. Because Firebug thought he was cute, and funny, and they understood him when they could never understand anyone else. Not just because he was inhuman like them, but because, above all else, they trusted him.
Trust was a stupid, foolish thing, but still Firebug let him wander around their house without bothering to stay awake a few more minutes to watch him. Trust was a stupid, foolish thing, but still Dirk let them wrap one arm around him to keep him still and brush his hair with the hairbrush they stole every few nights. Trust was a stupid, foolish thing, but still Firebug and Dirk gazed into the eyes of a fellow murderer and felt safe.
One evening, when the sun was still setting and the sky was still turning from burning red to deep blue, Firebug sat on Dirk's bed with the brush in their hand and said, "Can I ask you something?"
Dirk's response was a sleepy "mm," which Firebug understood as a yes.
"Do you feel like your body's yours?"
Dirk blinked his eyes open then. The no that came to him was immediate, but he instead said, "Why do you ask?"
"Curious," was Firebug's answer. Dirk breathed a laugh, partially at their comforting bluntness, partially at how obvious his response felt.
"No. I don't."
Firebug let out a soft thoughtful hum. "If it did– Feel like yours, I mean. What would it look like?"
He paused a moment to think, but still the words did not come to him. Only feeling. The feeling of his paws pounding on the ground with his heartbeat, of the wind playing with his fur and his whiskers, of something dying between his jaws.
"I've never had to put it to words," Dirk said. "What's it like for you? If you feel the same."
There was a moment of silence of Firebug's own as they thought, yet not once did the hairbrush stop moving through Dirk's fur.
"It's strange," Firebug said. "My body is mine, but I shouldn't have one, so it's not. I'm not solid. Put in this shell. This shell is mine, but I'm not supposed to have one, so it isn't."
Dirk hummed in thought. "What are you, if you aren't solid?"
The clock on the wall ticked-tocked twice, before Firebug said, "A force of nature, maybe."
"A force of nature?" Dirk snickered. "I wonder which one."
Firebug let out an amused little huff. "Not the one you're thinking of. That love isn't a love for myself." They paused again. "I would like it to be a love for myself one day, but I don't think you would let me."
"Not until I've grown bored of you," Dirk said.
"Of course," Firebug replied, with a smile in their voice.
Firebug set the brush down beside them, then, slowly, they combed their fingers through Dirk's hair. Dirk hummed, and despite himself, he leaned into their touch.
"I think I'm the wind," Firebug said. "I am just an observer. Empty space where a presence is not. I'm meant for nothing but to…" They swallowed, and their hand in Dirk's fur twitched. "To fan the flames."
"The wind…" Dirk thought of the breeze tussling his whiskers. "That sounds like you."
Firebug scratched at the top of Dirk's head, right between his pointed and his floppy ear.
"What about you?" they asked again.
Dirk thought of Firebug's hand between his ears, and the breeze tussling his whiskers, and the collar they'd buckle around his neck.
"I have brown fur," Dirk said, slowly at first, but suddenly he couldn't stop talking. "I have rough paw pads and dull claws. My only markings are a blaze of white on my chest and my tail. One of my ears is flopped over while the other one points up. My eyes are blue still, and I have– I have a collar."
"A collar?" Firebug said.
"It's blue," Dirk said. "Leather. Has a silver buckle and a tag with my name."
For a few seconds, Firebug did not say anything. Then, with another soft amused huff, they scooched to the side, stepped off the bed, and reached underneath.
"Is that what this is?" they asked. When they pulled back up, they were holding Dirk's collar in their hands.
"...Oh."
"I saw it under there a while ago. Didn't think it was my business. But…" Firebug took back their place sitting behind Dirk. He instantly recognized the soft clink of the buckle coming undone. Very lightly, Firebug asked, "May I?"
If it were anything or anyone else, Dirk would've said something like yes or of course or go ahead. But, voice knived with want, Dirk only said, "Please."
Firebug put the collar around Dirk's neck. They fumbled with it until it was just tight enough, then, gently, they buckled it closed.
Firebug put their hand back on his head to scratch behind his ear, and Dirk whined.
"May I ask something else?" Firebug said.
Dirk was an animal, and animals did not speak human language, so he only nodded.
"I want to come with you tonight. I have an idea for who you should kill, if you'd let me."
If anyone else had asked him this, offered even the idea of telling him who to kill, their body would be on the floor. But, blindly, foolishly, stupidly, Dirk only again nodded.
"Okay," Firebug said with a smile in their voice. They scratched behind Dirk's ear again, and he aimlessly leaned into their touch with his tail wagging.
The two of them sat together until night fell. Dirk never once took off his collar, and Firebug never once suggested it. Firebug tried asking Dirk a few things before the sun had disappeared, but eventually they only sighed and scratched his ear and said they'd ask again when human words came back to him.
When darkness consumed the town, Firebug stood and said, "Come with me."
Blindly, stupidly trusting, Dirk followed. Dirk was an animal, and animals could not open doors, so Firebug got the backdoor for him and walked him into the night.
Firebug led Dirk around the streets for a while, before suddenly they stopped and crouched behind a bush. Blindly, stupidly trusting, Dirk followed.
"The sheriff at house sixteen," Firebug whispered to him.
The sheriff was irritating, pestering, and one of the last figures of authority that still stood among the bodies. Of course Firebug would make a good choice. Tail wagging, Dirk nodded.
"Good." Firebug pointed to the house across the road. Softly, yet firmly, they said, "Fetch."
If a human commanded Dirk that way, he'd snap their neck without a second thought. But Firebug was not a human, and they did not give him a command. They told him what they wanted, and they let him make the choice if he wanted to follow.
Dirk wanted nothing more than to follow.
For a moment, it was like his cage had disappeared. There was no line between his mask, his corpse, himself. There was only him.
Dirk bolted across the street with the tag on his collar jingling. His preferred method of murder was stealth, but he was an animal not built for such things, so Dirk found a window in the back and jumped through. With the help of the sheriff's shocked yell and his superior sense of smell, Dirk found the sheriff before he found him.
Dirk plunged his teeth into his prey's neck. He pulled back, and with a vicious rip and a choked scream, the sheriff went limp. Dirk took a moment to watch the life leave his prey's eyes.
Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful.
Dirk grabbed the body by the scruff like he would a puppy. He hauled it out the window he came in through, and after checking to make sure no one was watching, he dragged it through the dark and dropped it in the shadows by Firebug's side.
Firebug smiled at him. Dirk had seen blood and gore and death a thousand times over, but he thought Firebug's smile might be the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.
"Good dog," they said.
Oh.
Suddenly, Dirk's head was spinning.
Praise was useless, human words meant nothing, but– But they said he was a good dog. Firebug was so smart, so much smarter than any worthless human, so if they said it, if they said he was a good dog with their pretty scratchy voice, it must be true. They liked him, they trusted him, they thought he looked beautiful with blood on his teeth and his claws, they loved him, they thought he was a good dog–
And they said he was a dog. They looked at him and they did not see his human flesh corpse. They saw him, brown fur and sharp teeth and dull claws, one floppy ear and wide blue eyes.
Dirk laughed and laughed and laughed.
Firebug led him home. They washed the blood off his face, and after much begging, cupped his cheeks in their hands and kissed his forehead.
Sweetly, softly, Firebug wiped something else off his face, but Dirk couldn't tell what.
The next morning, Firebug took off Dirk's collar as soon as they both crawled out of bed, but it took a while before speech came back to him. It wasn't until he remembered how to sit at a table, and he remembered how to curl his (paws? hands? whatever these awful things were) around a fork, did he remember how to speak words.
The first thing he said to Firebug was, "You said I'm a good dog?"
Firebug breathed a laugh, and they did that smirk they do when they feel like they know more than someone else. "Yes?"
"You s– You said I'm a good dog."
Firebug looked at Dirk a little harder then, and whatever they saw in Dirk's eyes, it made them drop that knowing smirk and meet his gaze. "Yes. You are a very good dog. Is that okay?"
Dirk barked a loud, strangled laugh, and he had to take a moment to stop himself from breathing so fast before speaking again. "You see me? I don't look like a human to you? I look like– Like a–"
"I saw you last night," Firebug said. "Sometimes I look at you and I see the way your body moves. The way your eyebrows scrunch together when you're thinking. But when–" Firebug choked on their words, their hand twitching the way it does when they're talking about something they think is beautiful– "When you're covered in blood, and smiling at me the way you do. I see you."
Dirk stared at them, silent, so Firebug spoke again.
"Brown fur," they said. "One floppy ear. Blue eyes. A blaze of white on your chest."
For a moment, Dirk did not move.
Then, suddenly, Dirk sobbed.
"Dirk?" Firebug said, and he noticed the scrape of their seat being pushed back, but he wasn't aware of the gap between that and when they appeared at his side. Dirk lifted one (hand?) to his cheek, then the other, breaths heaving and shoulders shaking.
"What's– What's wrong with me? Why am I…"
Firebug only pressed their hand to Dirk's shoulder. Dirk whimpered, a shrill, pitiful noise.
"Y-you see me? You really see me? I'm not human to you? I'm real?"
"You're real," Firebug said.
Dirk clutched Firebug's shirt in his hands and wailed. Firebug wrapped their arms around him and pressed the crook of their neck to his nose. Neither of them moved from that position for quite some time.
Gradually, gently, Dirk's frantic breaths slowed and his shuddering stopped. When Dirk was fully quiet again, he took a deep breath and pulled away, wiping at his face with his sleeve.
"That was awful," Dirk said. He sniffled. "Terrible. Hate it. Never want to do that again."
"I've never seen you…" Firebug started, then stopped.
"You make me feel such awful things," Dirk murmured, fondly despite himself.
Firebug reached a hand up to cup Dirk's cheek under their thumb. With a soft sigh, Dirk leaned into their touch and wrapped his hand around their arm. Firebug looked at him for a moment, brows furrowed slightly, then, suddenly, their lip curled into a smile and they huffed a laugh.
"And you thought I was lying when I called you lonely," they said. They rolled their thumb back and forth over the tear tracks on Dirk's cheek. "A fellow animal sees the real you and you crumble like wet paper."
Dirk preferred to keep his words poised and polite, but the only response that came to him was a choked, "Sh-shut up."
Firebug laughed at him. Laughed at him! If it were anyone else, Dirk would've torn out their throat for such a sin, but it was Firebug, so he only bared his teeth and let out a half-hearted growl. Firebug smiled at him like this action was cute.
"You're awful," Dirk said, leaning farther into Firebug's touch. His eyes closed without his input. "Terrible."
"Don't fall asleep on me," was Firebug's response. They pushed him up until his posture was straight, ignoring his indignant whines, then pulled their hand away. Dirk just barely had enough dignity to not chase after their touch.
"But, yes," Firebug said. "You are a very good dog."
Dirk flinched and let out a strained giggle. The ways Firebug was making him react were unfathomably embarrassing (Embarrassing! He couldn't believe it! Embarrassment was the stupidest, most useless emotion, and Firebug had figured out how to make him feel it!), and he'd gotten what he wanted out of the initial question anyway, so Dirk grasped wildly for a way to change the subject.
"How close are we now?" Dirk asked.
When they realized what he was talking about, that burning haze passed over Firebug's eyes. They paused, giving Dirk a chance to watch them flip through mental notes, before they said, "Very close. A few more nights, maybe."
"Good. I've grown sick of this town." Dirk smiled at them and rested his hand on his cheek. "I'm sure the real you will be a wonderful sight."
"That's right. I got to see you, you'll get to see me," Firebug realized aloud. They idly scratched at the table's corner. "I don't know what the real me looks like. I hope we like it."
Trust was a stupid, foolish thing, but Dirk only said, "I will."
—
"Get ready," was how Firebug opened the conversation a few nights later, perched halfway through Dirk's window with a gaze bright and wild. "It's tonight."
Dirk packed his old traveling bag with the things they wanted to survive the carnage. Dirk had very little, and Firebug even less. Dirk kept his cloak and collar at the very top, slipped his favorite dagger at his hip through a notch in his belt, watched Firebug gently put away a box of matches, and the two set off into the night.
Dirk and Firebug slinked through the shadowed streets until they came upon a long-emptied house– the first one Firebug doused, from when they knew what they wanted, but didn't know Dirk wanted the same. Dirk held their wrist to keep their frantic breaths steady. They had a look in their eye that Dirk had never seen before.
Dirk took his bag off and set it on the ground. He pulled out the box of matches, and Firebug took out his collar. Firebug kneeled to buckle the collar around his neck, and Dirk handed them the box with gentle care like it was made of glass.
"Are you sure?" Firebug said. "I know I've already asked, but if something goes wrong, you…"
Dirk only pressed his muzzle to their forehead, and Firebug went quiet. They looked down at the box, breathed in, and stood up.
It was strange, to wear his collar without his cloak overtop to hide it. He had nothing to hide from. Finally, finally, the world would get to see the animal he really was.
But, just for tonight, he wasn't much interested in that.
Firebug opened the box, took a match out, and struck it alight on their boot. They held it up to their face, eyes wide, jaw slightly agape, like the world was nothing but that little spark.
Firebug took a deep breath, whispered something Dirk did not hear, and threw the match.
In an instant, Salem was swallowed by flame. Firebug watched that first house get devoured, unmoving, then suddenly they'd ran to the next building, threw another match, to the next, threw another. Dirk raced after them, paws thumping on the ground like a trailing heartbeat.
What a sight it was, the whole town engulfed in light! Embers danced in the air like fireflies, the black sky painted red, not an inch of shadow left behind to hide under the pyre. Bright ginger and gold and white danced together, destroying everything under its footsteps, until nothing remained but wreckage and red-hot.
Buildings crumbled. Only the two souls on the streets would live to see Salem's final night. Dirk's tail wagged at the screams ringing out from the homes that still belonged to someone living.
Dirk tore his gaze away from the flames to look at Firebug. They wore a grin that looked simultaneously alien and right at home stretched onto their face. They laughed, tears streaming down their cheeks, eyes wild with firelust.
Their cage opened, baring to the stars the animal they really were.
It was beautiful.
On the dying streets of a murdered town, a dog danced with the wind. The breeze on its whiskers, pawsteps parting the air– For a beautiful, blazing moment, the dog and the wind were whole, unnatural and inhuman and alive together in arms.
A poor soul fled from the wreckage of their home and met the eyes of two murderers. The wind howled, and the dog followed, and then there was a corpse and blood on claws and teeth and a joyfully wagging tail. The wind fanned the flames and lit the body ablaze. Embers and the stars looked like the same thing. The dog barked and let the wind lead the way.
For the dog to let something lead it– for the dog to bare its throat to another and let it be told what to kill. For the wind to lead– for the wind to get up and move, to howl with energy, to ask something of someone and know he'll follow.
Trust was a stupid, foolish thing.
When the smoke came to be too much for the wind, and it stuttered and collapsed into wheezes, it knew the dog would grab its scruff between gentle bloodsoaked teeth and carry it away. Out of the pyre and Salem's corpse, onto a patch of grass by the river where the air was clear, the dog set the wind down, sat by its side, and pressed its nose to its forehead until the wind was again calm.
"Dirk," choked the wind– Firebug, that's right, they both had human names and theirs was Firebug– "Dirk, Dirk, Dirk…"
They pushed themself up, limbs shaking, and cupped Dirk's face in their hands. Dirk looked back at them with a smile drenched in blood.
"Haha!" Firebug's voice was hoarse, shaky, yet brimming with a life it seemed they'd only just now found. They hadn't stopped crying. "Thank you, thank you, I– I'm so– It's so beautiful, Dirk, so beautiful–"
Dirk only pressed his nose to their forehead and they went quiet. They giggled and let their gaze float over Dirk's shoulder, to the burning light from the now distant town.
"It's a shame, the limitations of this body," they said, fondness wrapped around each word. "If the smoke couldn't kill me, I could still be standing there."
What a blessing and a curse it was to be trapped in a body like this, Dirk thought to himself as he used his prison's human hands to cup Firebug's face back.
"Where will we go next?" Firebug asked him. "What other places can we burn? Who else can you kill? I want to see it all. I want– I've never felt so alive, Dirk. It's so beautiful– You're so beautiful. I want to burn everything and see you there with blood on your face, Dirk. The animal you are, I am; I want to see it, I want you to see it, together."
Dirk only smiled and said, "Let's see where the wind takes us."
Firebug smiled back. Dirk turned to follow their gaze again drift over his shoulder, watching Salem be reclaimed by forces of nature.
The two sat on that hill until the sun rose and the embers all died. With the town empty and the game won, Dirk took off his bag. Firebug put away the matches, and Dirk let them slip off his collar and hand him his cloak.
Firebug stood, and Dirk followed, and they led him away to find someone else to show their inner animals.