As soon as ratbarf had found himself here in Los Angeles he had begun work on his Projects. He was still working on perfecting a napalm recipe, and his pet Project at the moment was a rocket launcher and impact-detonated pipe-bombs, but the first thing he had done was make a pretty good recreation of his flamethrower from the Game.
It hadn't been hard - even the official flamethrower had been a cobbled-together sort of thing - although he'd had to make it run on diesel fuel owing to that lack of good napalm at the moment. He hadn't built it with any purpose in mind - just to prove he could - so it had been hanging up on the wall of the living room with a sign taped to it that said "TOUCH THIS AND DIE A PAINFUL FIERY DEATH" and which had so far kept it from being fucked with.
This seemed like a fairly decent excuse to take the thing out for a while, so he dug out his gas mask and welding goggles, tightened the laces on his fightin' boots, strapped his fuel tank to his back and tucked some of his Side Project incendiaries into his pockets, and headed out into the streets.
There was an awful lot of panicking - it was even more disorganized than the last time he had been in a city that was under Coalition fire, probably because these people were spoiled by peace and didn't know how to act in an emergency. Trevor grinned under the mask, just knowing that wherever the Scout was, he was probably trying to play Air Raid Warden; and wherever the New Pyro was, she was hopefully having as much fun as he was going to. But although screaming was not exactly unknown on the streets at the moment, one particular scream was especially loud and specific-sounding, and he took a detour in its direction, dialing the flamethrower's pilot light up into a bright blue flare that cast an eerie glow over the tableau in the alley.
"Excuse me," he said, "but does one of you need to be lit on fire?"
Of course, the mask made this come out more like "Mmumph mph, mmph mmm mmmph mph mmmm mph mm mph m mphw?"