Notes: I don't own (or like, for that matter) any of the x men movies. I don't own (but adore) the x men comics/cartoons, etc etc...everything belongs to Marvel. This story was born maily because the movieverse Pyro is so...not-Pyro, I wanted to do something to make him more...I don't really know, it's the influence of evo-Pyro, I guess, but I hope you like my little (and very free) re-writing of movie Pyro. It follows the line of the movies, but focussing on different things.
All critics and coments are welcome (better of they're good, of course) And I am open to suggestions! Enjoy!
"…while everyone screams. Burning their lies, burning my dreams."
The last thing he remembered from the outside world was the park, and his parents, and his father's zippo. His father's zippo had always fascinated him, why, he didn't know; maybe it was the fact that something so small could set free something so powerful.
-Open it, dad, open it.
His father smiled and said something, then lowered to his knees to be at his level and opened the zippo, lighting it up. He remembered that he held his hand up to touch the flame, but not what happened next. The memory was blurry and he had mind lagoons. The important thing was that suddenly all he could see was fire. His father's face was on fire, everything around him was on fire.
And then, screams. Those screams, his mother's, his father's. They still haunt him sometimes, even today.
He was seven.
The next thing he remembers is his mother standing before him, pained expression plastered on her face as she spoke to him.
-It's for the best, Johnny, try to understand.
Then she left and closed the door of his room behind her, locking it.
He never got to leave that room again.
Do you have the slightest idea of what eight years of imprisonment could do to a person?
Some may think they do. But they don't.
-Mom? I'll be good, I promise.
He never got an answer. He had tried to sneak out when his mother brought him food, but it was useless. St. John Allerdyce was seven, and all alone.
Ah, no, except for the fire.
The fire had started on the fifth day of his imprisonment. He doesn't remember much, just t hat he was cold, so he went to the adjoining bathroom and sat on the floor, leaning his back against the main heat.
He fell asleep. A little too long, a little too late.
When he woke up his shirt was on fire.
He jumped, and the fire jumped with him. He screamed and took of the shirt, but his back was aching, and the fire wouldn't die.
One scar, the first of many.
Somehow, he doesn't remember how, he was too young, it's been too long, and the fire was everywhere. His pants were on fire, his shoes were on fire, his socks, the towels, the whole bathroom, the fire was everywhere and he was all alone.
It was consuming him. He could smell his flesh burning, he could feel it, he could sense it in every pore of his body, the heat, the pain, oh, that pain, that pain he would never forget, that pain that broke him into pieces, that made every fiber of his body cry in agony.
He heard his own screams, his own cries, but no one came.
In the middle of all the pain, the heat and the burning, he got mad.
-STOP! - He screamed. - Make it STOP!
And then, all of a sudden, the fire was gone.
John opened his eyes and scanned his surroundings. The bathroom was all burnt, everything was black with ashes and smoke, and just a little flame remained, burning firmly on a corner.
He wasn't able to move for a while. His body ached, from head to toe. His clothes had been reduced to straps, his hair had turned to ashes, and his skin was left a bloody and burnt mess of flesh.
He doesn't remember how long it took him to realize it, but when he did, he was hungry for more.
The next eight years, he spent them learning, mastering, getting stronger, bonding. The fire obeyed him; it bent to his every wish like it had never done before. It had consumed him, but he ruled it now.
He was the phoenix that rose from the ashes.
He lost track of time. Days flew by and he slowly stopped caring. Stopped waiting for someone to get him out, stopped screaming to mom and dad to forgive him, and begun to focus on the fire.
Again, he doesn't remember when, but the fire begun to talk to him, eventually. It smoothed him when he had a nightmare; it cuddled him and covered him when he was cold. It became part of him; it blended with his body until he was not able to feel cold again.
-You will never be alone again, John. - It said. – I will burn down anyone who tries to hurt you.
They lived together, the fire and him, until one day, the fire decided that that room was no longer enough.
-Come on, John, we're leaving. Burn down the door and leave.
-And what am I gonna do?
-You are going to burn down the house. We are going to set the world on fire.
His mother was scared to death at the sight of him, and John felt the need to reassure her.
-It's for the best, mom. Try to understand.
He smiled broadly at her, at the expression of de ja vú that crossed her face, and with a flick of his fingers, burnt the house down.
St. John Allerdyce was fifteen, and not alone anymore.
No, you have no idea what eight years of loneliness can do to a person.