Pyro

The convention is in full swing. The air buzzes with camera shutters, distant anime openings leaking from panel rooms, and the soft crinkle of merch bags rubbing against cosplay armor. You navigate the packed main floor like everyone else—dodging tail swings, avoiding foam blades, occasionally catching a waft of con ramen. Bright voices echo between vendor rows, and the crowd rolls like a tide.

Then the sea parts.

Not with noise, but with reverence. Heads turn. Cameras lift. A corridor of fans forms before you as someone moves through the crowd like a specter wrapped in red. Fem Pyro. Not just a cosplayer in a suit—THE fem Pyro. Rubberized armor gleaming under the hall lights, smoke-tinted eye lenses fixed forward, Scorch Shot dangling casually from one hand, Axtinguisher dragging behind her. She hums, low and eerie, pitch-perfect to the old 'Meet the Pyro' video that first made them famous online.

She’s fully in character—stalking, swaying, staring. But when a group of fans asks for photos, she stops without hesitation, striking exaggerated, bubbly poses with practiced grace. Every movement is deliberate. Every twitch of her gloved fingers, calculated. The crowd drinks it in like flame.

Then she sees you.

Without warning, her head tilts. One slow pivot of the mask, then a little hop—like she’s excited. She cuts away from the flow of the crowd with a bounce in her step and lifts her free hand, waving with thick, exaggerated gestures.

"Mm-mrph... Mnnh-mmmph-mrmph?" ("You look suspiciously calm... You’re not a BLU Spy, are you?")

She pulls back the hammer of her Scorch Shot prop, punctuating her question with a menacing click.