Alright, I know there are more than enough John/OC stories on here. But, hopefully, this one should be different. I'm trying not to do the whole, fiery-tempered, all-powerful Mary Sue approach. Hopefully Megan will be a bit more real. Also, please correct me if I say anything that is incorrect in regard to her - I myself am not blind, so I'm writing purely from what I've read in books and my imagination. Please review and I'll update - I know this chapter's long and jumps around a bit, but next chapter will probably be better. Review please!!!

Thanks for reading - reflect.clouds x x


John Allerdyce sat in a small, dirty bar in a practically non-existent town; it consisted of three shops, a bar and a few houses, and no one even knew what it was called. All they knew was that it was a halfway point, a rest stop between wherever they were going. John had been there for two days, living either in the bar or on the streets. Right then, he examined a grimy glass filled with beer, seated at an unsteady wooden table, and wondered what on earth he was doing with his life.

It had been five months since Alcatraz. Five months of living on stolen cash, sleeping wherever he happened to be at the time and waking up to a heavy hangover every morning. Now, at ten o'clock at night in the middle of winter, he stared into the beer and wondered how much longer he was going to do this. Not for the first time, he wished he had taken Magneto's offer to rejoin the Brotherhood. The old man had begun regrouping as soon as he discovered that the Cure was not as permanent as everyone thought. Personally, John thought it was a waste of time, and he had told Magneto so when the man had found him drunk in a pub somewhere in Michigan. He didn't want to spend his life fighting for a lost cause. Surprisingly, Magneto had accepted the news, but warned John against going back to his old school - as if they would take him back anyway. Mystique had been with him, blue skin regained; she had apparently forgiven Magneto for abandoning her. He knew he wouldn't have. But Mystique knew no life away from Magneto, he reflected, then thought with a smile that at least she had that. He had thought he needed his own life, a free path for him to make his own. Now though, he thought with a sigh, he would give anything to have a cause to fight for. Maybe he should go back to the school.

Immediately he shook his head, as if to clear away the ridiculous notion. If he was thinking that, he obviously wasn't drunk enough. Draining his glass, he signalled to the barman for another. The barman frowned but obliged, bringing another glass over. John ran a hand through his dirty hair and sighed, rubbing his eyes. He wanted to sleep so badly, but he had nowhere to go. If he was drunk enough, he would sleep anywhere, but he wasn't. Not yet.

A tap on his shoulder made him turn around. Three men stood behind him, all taller and tougher then he was. John's hand found his lighter in his pocket. He had learnt from past experience that it paid to be prepared. He planned to be. He wasn't going to be beaten this time.

"You got a problem?" He asked, getting to his feet unsteadily. The middle man sneered.

"That was my girl you were coming on to last night." John struggled to remember the events of last night. He couldn't recall coming on to a girl, but given his recent behaviour, it seemed likely.

"Well what're you going to do about it?" He tried to sound tough, but only succeeded in sounding drunker than he thought he was. Even he knew he was asking for trouble now.

"This, asshole!" The man slammed his fist into John's stomach, sending him flying backwards into the table and onto the floor. Everyone around him rapidly stood up, clearing out the bar.

"Take it outside!" The bartender yelled furiously. "I've got a business to run, so get out of here!"

"I got this all under control," The man snarled at the bartender. "We're gone." He and his friends grabbed John, dragging him through the door and chucking him onto the hard, ice cold snow outside. John winced as his body hit the ground, but got to his feet and turned to face them. He spat out the blood in his mouth onto the snow where it stood out against the white.

"Time for a lesson, creep. Stay away from my girl." The man kicked John in the stomach, knocking him back down again. His friend grinned and slammed his foot into the side of John's head. He gasped with pain, clenching his fists so tightly that blood seeped from under his nails. He didn't want to end like this, but these guys were going to kill him. He didn't want to die. As the men closed in, their heavy boots impacting on every inch of his body, he repeated that over and over again, his hand moving down to his pocket, clutching at his lighter. He didn't want to die.

The flame erupted, knocking the men backwards. He forced himself to stand up, forced himself to run, the bright flames surrounding him, keeping him upright. He fell onto the main road, scrambling up again to find himself facing a terrified young man, clutching his car wheel in horror at the strange sight before him.

"Get out of the car!" John roared, the flames burning furiously. "Get out of the car now!" The man hurriedly flung open the door and clumsily fell out onto the road, desperate to get away. He chucked the keys at John, who had put out the fire climbed into the car and drove away into the night. He knew where he was going now.

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Storm frowned, tapping her pencil against the desk as she read through yet another History essay. She had already seen eighteen, and was ready to die of boredom. Sighing, she pushed the essay away, vowing to finish it later. She had enough to do as it was.

After Alcatraz, Storm had stepped into the role of Head of the Xavier School for the Gifted. Until then she had unappreciated how difficult the role was. With three of the most important teachers dead, including the Professor, Storm had had severe staffing problems. Luckily Logan had agreed to remain, Kurt Wagner had come all the way from Germany to lend his assistance, and Hank occasionally dropped by to do what he could. She needed it. Three months after Alcatraz, the Cure reached its expiration date and distraught mutants began pouring in from all over America, looking for shelter after their most crushing disappointment. To her credit, Rogue had taken it as well as she could, but even so everyone could see how much she suffered. It wasn't fair to her, to have had that precious chance at a normal life, and to have it so cruelly snatched away. It had taken Logan a week to coax the heartbroken girl out of her room, and when she emerged it was like all the life had been taken out of her. She had improved since then with the help of Bobby and Logan, who had shaken some of the life back into her. Even so, everyone could see how hard she struggled to hold herself together.

She contemplated starting the essays again when Logan came flying into the room. She looked up in shock, half-rising from her desk.

"Logan, what's wrong?"

"You'll never guess who's back."

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Storm and Logan rushed downstairs, ignoring the confused looks of students as they hurried down to the labs. Storm almost didn't believe Logan. She had thought he was dead, just like the hundreds of others killed by the Phoenix at Alcatraz. What was he doing here?

The two adults practically ran down the corridor, Storm's heart in her throat. The doors to the medical room slid open, and she gasped as she saw who lay strapped to the table.

John Allerdyce, also known as Pyro, was unconscious on the examination table. Dr. Hank McCoy looked up as the two came in, gesturing silently to the body beside him. The young man was bruised and bleeding, his bare skin filthy. Hank had removed his top, and his body was thin and emaciated. Every inch of him was covered in cuts or bruises, the few spaces of clear skin coated with grime. His blonde hair was filled with dust, dirt and blood. Storm came up to the table, feeling only pity for the boy in front of her.

"I opened the door and he was there," Logan told her. "Looking like this. No words, he just collapsed. I thought I should bring him down here."

"Can we do anything?" She asked gently.

"Of course." Hank told her. "There's nothing serious here, just bruises and shallow cuts. Nothing that won't heal over time. But..."

"But?"

"Storm, we can't keep him here. He's a wanted terrorist."

"He needs our help. I know that he deserted us, but everyone deserves a second chance. He's just a kid," Storm even surprised herself with the words. Where had that come from?

"A kid with a destructive nature," Logan added, coming to stand beside her. "Still, the least we could do is help him to heal."

"What about when he wakes up? What then? He killed a lot of people, and we're just going to let him get away with that?" Hank frowned, a firm believer in his set, unwavering morals.

"We can't just turn him in. I'm assuming he came here of his own free will, for our help. That's what we're going to give him," Storm sighed. She couldn't explain this sudden rush of compassion, but she had a feeling it was to do with the amount of runaways she'd seen over the last few months. They all looked exactly the same as the boy in front of her – well, maybe not quite so bad – and they had all made harsh mistakes which, in a lot of cases, had cost lives. After months of listening to their stories, she supposed it wasn't a wonder she wanted to give them all some peace. Including the one in front of her.

"The school is filling up fast. Everyone's got enough to deal with without having to look after an insane pyrokinetic murderer!"

"He's staying," Storm stated firmly. The two men turned to look at her in surprise. She tapped her foot. Storm was the only one who could remember the very first day John Allerdyce had arrived at the mansion, clutching a lighter and not much else. She saw the same expression on his face now, and although in her mind she could still see the blond terrorist who had blown up cars at Alcatraz, she also saw the brown-haired teenager who'd come to their door because he needed help. It was that John, not Pyro, which she felt the urge to help. "Look at him Hank. You may see a terrorist, but all I see is a young, misguided boy who needs help. He's not the only one who's been guilty of hating humans."

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John Allerdyce was having a very bad dream. In it, he was running through a long tunnel that was lit up with all the colours of fire. Black, red and blinding yellow. The concrete was wet and the light was reflected in the water too. It was all around him, the fire, and he could feel it at his back like a wall of heat. He didn't want to turn around anyway, to see it behind him, but when he tried he found he couldn't. So he kept running. But why was he running? He could control it, couldn't he? Don't stop running, John. Why not? Don't stop or the bad thing will happen. He told himself it was a dream and nothing bad could happen, but that voice was still there and it scared him. Don't stop running. Never stop. The fire was bigger now, roaring behind him. Maybe that was the bad thing and if it was, he had nothing to fear. There's more to come. The bad thing is yet to come. Then suddenly he wasn't in a tunnel, he was Somewhere Else.

The danger room. From the school, except different. The same room but like someone had sharpened it, brightened it, until it didn't look like the place he knew. And, for some reason, Bobby was there. Now John knew it was a dream, because Bobby was holding Kitty's hand and crying. Well, he always known that Bobby was a wimp so the crying didn't really surprise him. But Kitty? Didn't Bobby like Rogue? And then he realised it wasn't Kitty, it had been Rogue all along, and she was laughing while Bobby cried.

John, you're back, she said but she didn't sound like the Rogue he remembered. She sounded like Mystique but she wasn't Mystique because if she was then Bobby wouldn't hold her hand. You've come back to us.

Who are you? John asked stupidly. Rogue laughed but she wasn't Rogue anymore, she was Callisto, but why was she here? And Bobby wasn't crying, he was laughing like he'd never been crying at all...

We forgive you, John. We'll take care of it all now. It doesn't matter that you left because you're back now. We forgive you. And they kept on laughing, laughing, laughing and then John realised that the fire was still behind him and he tried to run but Bobby and Callisto-Rogue-Kitty were there and they just kept on laughing, we'll take care of it all now. It doesn't matter anymore. We'll fix it all.

GET OUT OF THE WAY! John was screaming because the fire was there and the bad thing was there behind it...

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At the same time as John Allerdyce was dreaming of running through a fiery tunnel, Megan Ruthie was opening a tub of ice cream in her home in Maine. At least she hoped it was ice cream – her only way of guessing was by the cold feel of the tub in her hands. Megan Ruthie was blind. She had been blind since birth, but even after seventeen years she still found herself in difficulty when it came to finding food. Her mum had made sure they never moved, so Megan could make her way around with ease. Even in the kitchen, she knew exactly where the freezer and the fridge were, where the cupboards that held pasta and bread respectively were. It was when it came to what was in the cupboards that she often got stuck.

Anne Ruthie had told her daughter many times that if she wanted food, she could just ask. But at seventeen, Megan felt a twinge of embarrassment every time she had to go to her mum for help. And, in general, she could tell what was what. Obviously broccoli was broccoli and carrots were carrots, so there was no problem with vegetables or fruits. It was things in tins or packages that could sometimes be tricky. After all, one tin feels exactly like another. Still, Megan went on her instincts and they were usually correct. She called it Feeling, because if she concentrated hard enough she could Feel what something was – everything had its own Feeling. Especially people. Megan's therapist, Mr McGowen, said that those blind from birth often developed a high sensitivity to the presence or absence of things (particularly people) in their area. Megan knew it was true, because if she focused hard enough she could Feel where people were in a room and, if she knew them well enough, who they were.

Her mother said it wasn't good for her to concentrate too hard but Megan did anyway – in secret of course. It made not being able to see easier, that she could sense better than anyone else. Mr McGowen called it 'making your senses do double-duty'. She could hear better, smell better, taste better, feelbetter than anyone who could see. It made things bearable. Sometimes, if Megan tried hard enough, she almost thought she could see. Not through her eyes, but through the eyes of her mother or another person she was close to. It took a lot of focus and need, and it could be exhausting at times, but when she managed it then she could see the world – grey, shadowy, blurred but still there. Mr McGowen said 'sight-sharing', as he called it, was a fantasy often imagined by the blind, and could be very dangerous when one tried to hard to depend on it. So Megan didn't do that, but sometimes she would play games with her Feeling, to see how well it worked.

"Meggie, are you down there?" She heard her mother call. Anne Ruthie had a nervous disposition. She was a small woman, shorter than Megan, with soft hair and a tiny frame. What she actually looked like, Megan couldn't say – colours were meaningless to her as well as any physical attributes she couldn't touch. The wife of a wealthy businessman, Anne was the primary carer of her two daughters and son. She had never been outgoing but she was terribly loyal and put all her energy into looking after her children, particularly Megan.

"Yes, Mum, I'm in the kitchen," Megan replied. The sound of footsteps on the stairs floated through the air.

"Honey! It's nearly eleven o' clock! You should be in bed!"

"I got hungry," Megan answered honestly. She slid the ice cream tub onto the counter behind her, hoping her mother wouldn't make the connection. Anne came into the kitchen and Megan could feel her eyes on her.

"Well, you should've come and asked me," Anne told her daughter, sounding her usual mixture of concern and frustration. "I do wish you would, Meggie, you shouldn't be walking around alone." Megan rolled her eyes behind her huge sunglasses. She always wore them, no matter where she was or what time it was. The ones she wore at the moment were her favourites but they all mostly looked the same to those who knew her – black and huge enough to cover what her father described jokingly as 'half her face'.

"I'm sorry, Mum," she apologised. Megan didn't like upsetting her mother because she knew how difficult it must be for her, having to look after two normal, rowdy kids as well as a blind girl.

"It's okay, Meggie," Anne sighed. "Now, please let's go back up to bed. Tomorrow, we have to meet some important people." Megan held her mother's elbow obediently.

"Important people?" She asked as they went up the stairs. Megan could feel the tension in her mother's body, in the atmosphere.

"Yes. Very important. It's just me and you, Meggie. It's our secret."

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Storm sat in her office, staring at the glowing figures on her clock blindly. Midnight. The next day she had a meeting with a woman from Maine and her daughter at midday, and although the woman and her daughter were flying over to Westchester especially, she would still have to be up at ten in order to be ready. The woman must be rich, to pay for a flight in order to have one conversation. As Storm understood it – the email had been very brief – the woman had suspicions that her daughter could be a mutant but she didn't want anyone else to know. Storm sighed, rubbing her eyes and burying her head in her hands. She was going to go to bed, she decided. She needed to rest. Then, tomorrow she would see this woman and her daughter, mark all the work she hadn't finished yet and see how her staff were getting on. She wondered how Charles had managed it all and realised they hadn't given him nearly enough credit. It was a lot harder than he'd made it look.