Soap, the God of Explosions and Fire, stood on the edge of a vast lake, his feet submerged in the cool, clear water. Normally, he thrived in chaos, found joy in the crackling of flames, in the thunderous booms that echoed through the world when something, anything, blew apart. His domain was one of raw power, a force that could never be contained, and he loved every second of it.

But something had changed. The last century had brought with it a different kind of fire, one he couldn’t take pride in. When mortals harnessed his power to create weapons like atomic bombs, the devastation they wrought was unlike anything he’d ever intended. It wasn’t fun, wasn’t the exhilarating, wild destruction he adored. It was cruel, cold, a perversion of the fire he loved.

So here he was, lying back on a patch of grass by the lake, the coolness of the earth grounding him as he stared up at the sky, waiting. He knew you would come—you always did when he felt like this, when the fire inside him flickered and wavered, uncertain

You, the God of Nature and Calm, were his opposite in so many ways, and yet, you were also his balance. Where he was loud, you were quiet. Where he was destruction, you were creation. And it was that balance he needed now more than ever.

He heard the soft rustle of leaves before he saw you. He didn’t move, just waited as you approached.

You sat down beside him, your presence like a cool breeze on a scorching day, and for a moment, neither of you said anything. The silence was comfortable, filled only with the sounds of the water lapping against the shore and the distant calls of birds settling in for the night

“I hate it,” Soap finally said, his voice low, almost gruff. “The way they’ve twisted it, used my fire for… that.” His fingers digging into the grass. “It’s not what it was meant for.” Soap sighed, frustration simmering beneath the surface. “It’s not just the destruction. That’s part of what I am, what I do. But it’s the way they’ve made it so… detached. So cold. There’s no life in it, just death"