The Pyre

Disclaimer: I do not own any aspect of any incarnation of the Marvel Universe, and this work is not being produced for financial gain. The rights to the characters belong to Marvel, and 20th Century Fox.

From Ashes

In hindsight, I suppose my life's pretty ironic.

I was an only child, and my parents always cared for me as a kid. We didn't have a ton of money, but there was always enough to get by. My Dad was the Minister of a poor parish in Los Angeles, while my Mom spent most of her time at home or the Church.

I suppose my parent's religious bent is where my name came from. Admittedly, naming a kid after Saint John the Baptist is not the most humble act, particularly when your names are Zachary and Elizabeth, but the moniker proved pretty fitting in the end.

For a while, I was actually very happy at home. I had loving parents who thought the world of me, or at least the idea of me, but; at that age, the distinction was difficult to grasp. I wanted to follow in Dad's footsteps: spread the good Lord's word for a living. I went to school, and had pretty decent grades. I spent some time as a Boy Scout too, learning how to tie knots, survive in the wilderness, and, most notably, how to light a fire.

I always had a healthy fear of fire as a child, nonetheless, which is another irony. From the cradle, I was taught that fire's a two-edged tool: creating and destroying. Like many things, Dad figured fire was a gift from God, which humans often misused. When I look back on my childhood, although I try not to, I always have to admit that Mom and Dad taught me some valuable lessons. Humans have certainly never understood fire, or much else. My parents, it turned out, despite all their biblical wisdom, were quite human in that respect, understanding their son least of all.

Sometimes, when I look at Bobby, I see what I was like in those days. He's like a reflection of what might have been: comforting and disturbing. That familiarity is probably what forged our friendship, but I'm getting ahead of myself.

I don't think Magneto ever grasped how closely his ideology reflected my own views. He saw a bit of himself in me, I think, but he probably never quite understood why. You see, if Erik Lehnsherr died in Auschwitz, I had my own death, or maybe rebirth is a more appropriate term.

On my eleventh birthday, I woke up on fire. Or, at least, that is what it seemed like initially. While I was sleeping, I had a nightmare, which I cannot remember to this day, and then I awoke in the midst of a veritable inferno.

In the background, I could hear my mother screaming my name. My father's loud voice reverberated through the house as well, the preacher's powerful tone overcoming his distance. They were both outside the house, but I remained inside. Somehow, the flames had not disturbed me. My pyjamas remained in perfect condition. The fire did not even wake me up.

I have always wondered about that night in the burning house. You see, fire burns me. At least, it does if I'm not controlling the flames. My body is only immune to fire I control. Thus, I would come to wonder, in later years, as I further grasped my abilities' limits, whether I subconsciously caused the fire which consumed my house. Admittedly, my parents deserved it, if I did waste their house – they would show me that truth all too soon – but, nonetheless, I have always wondered about that fire. I guess that is just another of the myriad might have beens dotting my existence.

I think that my parents assumed that I was dead by the time I walked out of the house untouched by the flames. I wonder what they thought of that scene. I must have looked like the Christ child himself, baptized with fire. Of course, I'll never know what they really thought. You see, by that time, I had realized a small portion of my abilities.

"Mom, Mom, look at this! Look at what I can do!" I gleefully exclaimed.

I had held on to a small flame in my right hand after 'escaping' the fire, and began playing with my powers. Twirling my hand in a circle, I sent the flaming soaring around my head like a fiery halo. The flames danced joyfully, entirely under my control: harmless fun. What was my mother's reaction?

She screamed.

"Elizabeth, what is it? Saint John? Oh my dear Lord, have mercy upon us all."

They were afraid of me. More than that, they ran: ran away from me, as if I were some sort of demon.

I suppose I did what any other eleven year-old would have done in response. They were too fast, and I could not keep up. Eventually, I simply stumbled to a halt, utterly exhausted. Then I cried, quenching my flames with a thought in the desperate hope that they might return. The firemen probably showed up a few minutes later to save the surrounding neighbourhood, but I was gone by then.

A pair of punks attacked me. They were just humans, but I did not even have a match. I was on a darkened street, in a poor area, all alone. Maybe they figured I had some money. Perhaps their discovery that I did not even have a dime was what prompted one of them to stab me in the leg. I don't know. I was not exactly conscious by that point. Let's just put it this way: Magneto's not the only one with a mark.

By the time I woke up, the sun was up. I figure at least ten hours or so had passed. Apparently, no one had felt the need to help the little unconscious kid on the sidewalk. The humans probably had work or something; maybe they just couldn't be bothered. I eventually stumbled into a hospital. No one treated me for quite a few hours, maybe a day. Considering that it was a public hospital, and I was no one important, that should not have been a surprise. I should have known to expect no help from the humans. Then again, if I had been smart, I would never have even gone through the hospital's front entrance in the first place.

Treatment of my wounds consisted of nothing more than a quick check-up and some bandages: a complete joke. The real treatment was the two police officers who tried to put me in cuffs while still in the doctor's office. Apparently, my parents had accused me of arson. Who knows? Maybe they were even right. Even if they were wrong, I have done much worse since then.

At that age, however, I was crushed. My parents wanted me thrown in prison. The police were arresting me. Fortunately, I was just starting to wise up by then. Even more fortunately, Los Angeles has never quite managed to chase smoking out of the public hospitals.

Two men dressed as police officers pushed through the doctor's door, looking grim. They immediately approached me, one trying to subtly keep one hand on his revolver; I noticed.

"Are you, Saint John Allerdyce?" a moustached cop asked, nervously chewing on the smoking cigar in his mouth.

I swallowed dryly at the appearance of the two large men. Trying to glance past them at the door, or at the doctor, I found the General Practitioner unconcerned, apparently accustomed to this sort of occurrence. The two officers had the path to the door thoroughly blocked.

My nervousness seemed to calm the cops because, when the same policeman spoke again, it was with more confidence and gruffness: "You're under arrest for suspected arson, mutant. I recommend that you come quietly."

The second cop tightened his grip on his gun, maybe figuring that would give him a bit more speed: that they might have a fight on their hands. That was a good call. I was scared and I lashed out.

I jumped back from the first cop's grasping arms, and then, abruptly, he was aflame. The second cop smoothly drew his weapon, and I drew my hands into a warding gesture, screaming "Please, don't!" Then the fire was everywhere. I shut my eyes in abject terror, and, by the time they opened again, all that remained in the room was three charred husks. I ran.

Somewhere along the way, I picked up my Zippo. The lighter became a constant companion in my flight from anything and everything. Not one of those disposable units, as long as I gave the lighter a refill every now and, I could always trust my Zippo. Somewhere in Nebraska, I acquired a new name as well. I gave some crook, thinking he could rob me or something, a taste of my power. He was pretty petty, and decided to start some name-calling. Even at twelve, I found him pathetic, but he did say one interesting thing; he called me a pyro. What can I say? I liked the name: better than Saint John certainly.

Eventually, following rumours of people who were like me, and who might understand me, I arrived in New York State. In Buffalo, all the rumours dried up, so I decided to take a chance. If there were other mutants somewhere here, I figured a big enough kaboom would be the best way to signal my presence.

I suppose that I was lucky the professor found me before I blew that empty warehouse sky high. That would have probably resulted in a warrant with which I was not yet ready to deal. Of course, I was slightly less lucky that Professor X sent Scott Summers to find me. Apparently deciding that neutralizing me before I did any damage was his first priority, old one-eye humiliated me. He dragged me to the mansion, trussed up, without my lighter, as if I was little more than a sack of flesh. I had never felt so useless. Cyclops took me to pieces, acting as if all my powers were little more than parlour tricks. All I had left by then was power, and he took even that away.

More than for any other reason, I accepted Xavier's offer of shelter and schooling because I felt worthless; I had nothing else to lose. I was there on the off chance that there would even be someone at the mansion who could teach me how to take down Summers. The place was a school after all. I figured I would spend a few weeks eating some good food, and then hit the road again.

Then I met Bobby.

AN:

This is the first part of four, all of which I have planned. As I am sure readers have guessed by this point, this is a character piece. Part One deals with life before The Xavier Institute; Part Two explores life at Xavier's school; Part Three is about Pyro's time in The Brotherhood; and Part Four returns the reader to the present, where Pyro faces the consequences of Alcatraz. Please, if you have any comments, leave a review. They are my main reason for posting, even if I probably will continue writing my stories regardless.