Disclaimer: I don't own Bleach

This is St John Allerdyce, lying on the bed, eyes on the ceiling, keeping a close watch on the fly that buzzes around the corners of the room.

He is thinking about the X-men (idiot name, laughable, idealistic, fitting; his mind sneers and his mouth twists). It's been a month since he's left, a month of following Magneto (idiot name, laughable, pompous, fitting; he scowls and flicks the cap on his lighter). He's been bought by praise and he knows it; knows himself to be a fool, knows Bobby and Marie to be the greater fools. The fly on the ceiling has perched itself there, upside down, and is skittering around jerkily, aimlessly. There is no hope for mutants in a world of people that still hate and fear each other even for looking slightly different.

This is St John Allerdyce, more pessimistic and cynical than a fifteen-year-old kid should be, but priding himself on knowing the truth and having the balls to do something about it.

He is thinking about his friends (ex-friends, morons, enemies; he frowns). Will he ever see them again? It gets lonely, lost among the crowd of mutants who have come to join the Cause. Come to join his new friends (employers, exploiters, manipulators; he shakes the thought out of his head). Magneto is already making a difference, with the invaluable help of Mystique, and soon things will be better for all mutants. The fly has disappeared from his sight, into another corner of the room. He will see his friends then, and they will tell him he was right, and apologize, and he'll kiss Marie's gloved hand and beat Bobby into the ground before going out to play some basketball.

This is St John Allerdyce, and he is a hero, a rebel, a saviour of mutantkind, because he knows the score and isn't afraid to cause casualties and do a bodycount afterwards.

He is thinking of the humans involved in all of this. He has begun to fear them (the emotion curdles and rusts around the edges more and more every day into something resembling hatred). They kill what they do not know; they do not give mutants a chance, even when homo superior would extend a gracious hand to those lower on the evolutionary ladder. They are insignificant and stupid. The fly buzzes fitfully, bumping against the ceiling above his head once more, still seeking a way out. Humans are a thing of the past, weak and undeveloped, helpless without guns and driven mad by their own inferiority. The X-men are blind; Bobby can't see past his family, or Marie past the end of her own guilt. There should be no guilt.

This is Pyro, snapping the lid of the lighter shut as the ashes of what used to be a fly drift silently to the ground. He is a god amongst insects. A god.