Warnings for Story: Slash of the Bobby/John variety.
Warnings for Chapter: Introspective (lots), more weird flashbacks (so be warned for confusion), some weird dream-like sequences (see the word fire more times than you ever dreamed possible!) that make no sense, possible OOC X-Men, general what the hell?-ness.
Chapter Eight: Wounded
The heat on his face was scorching. The sensation felt bizarre, out of place, undeniably wrong somehow, and yet it was still there. It simultaneously pushed and pulled at him, moving him away even as it drew him closer.
At first he'd taken the darkness around him for granted, something natural, but gradually John realised that his eyes were still tightly closed. Slowly he opened them, feeling as if he was pushing against a barrier made by the temperature.
Once they were open, he thought they were still shut, as the blackness in front of him did not alter. Then blurred colours began to seep into his vision: reds, oranges, yellows, golds, all mixed together. Every one of them was strangely familiar on a level higher than just labelling them, although it took a moment to realise how he knew them.
He'd seen every one of them before in the fire he used. People never appreciated how many shades fire had, but he was still finding fresh ones. There were some here that were new, imperceptibly merging in with the rest.
For some reason, the exact shapes remained blurry. Still, he didn't need to see that clearly. Pyro knew enough about fire to recognise it.
From what he could gather, there was some sort of inferno burning directly in front of him, free to move and mould itself however it liked with no restrictions. Smaller flames had broken away from it, circling towards him. Interestingly, none of it had yet moved behind him.
Possibly slightly more worrying was the fact that he didn't feel scared.
He tried to turn to see if there was anything else, but his body was fixed in place/ HI legs refused to move, and when he tried to lift his hand, all he saw was a small dark form against the burning light.
This place was so strange, and yet he felt a bizarre sense of déjà vu. Again, he didn't remember why immediately. Time didn't seem to be that obvious here; something only made worse by the way his mind kept drifting away to the blaze. Whenever it did, the flames would seem to gain further energy from somewhere and leap closer towards him. It was so hypnotic that it was hard to think of anything else.
The memory finally clicked into place as he wrenched his mind back once more. When they'd been on the helicopter, flying back from Alkali Lake—
"Am I really worth it?"
"What were you expecting?"
"I can't go back. Not now."
"Just remember that I'm here when you need me. If you need me."
'Bobby…'
—he'd felt something, like thousands of flames were igniting inside his mind, all rushing to burn as much as possible—
Water rushing over flames, not true flames, putting them out…
—and something had happened, something to stop them spreading—
…death, no more fire, no more burning…
—and then…and then…
Nothing. His mind abruptly cut out there, drawing away towards the fire again, following its movement and trying to plunge deeper inside.
What had happened there? The images had suddenly come all at once, mixed and confused and undeniably powerful. They'd looked distorted, as if seen through a heat haze, with every shade of red, orange, yellow or gold glowing stronger than the rest, casting a tinted light over the scenes. It made each scene seem the same, distinctive details disappearing.
Bobby was the only figure who stood out. By all rights he should have followed the rules, reduced to the colours of fire. Instead he appeared different because the filter refused to cover him. Even his blonde hair looked faded and out of place.
In a strange way, it was like he was separate from anything else nearby. The reds, oranges and the rest made him look like a shadow, a shape defined by the objects around him. It was as if the fire refused to accept him because he mainly belonged to its opposite.
The memories faded away too quickly for any in-depth analysis though. Just as rapidly and intensely as they had arrived, they vanished again, leaving only the towering flames.
They looked closer than before. While the memories had been playing in such vivid detail, the fire had slowly crept forwards. When he was watching, it remained where it was, but he could almost sense it waiting for him to glance away again. If he was distracted by his memories once more, it could gain more ground.
He wasn't really sure what would happen if it touched him.
Bobby's eyes slowly fluttered open.
At first all he could see was white. Then he saw edges and realised that he was staring at a ceiling. There were several cracks in it that occasionally joined together, which ruled out any fancy notions about heaven or an afterlife. Not unless the next world was much closer to this on than anybody had ever told him.
The other problem with his supposed death was the dull ache in his head, not to mention a certain strange exhausted feeling in every muscle. Despite the fact that his mind was wide awake, his body felt tired.
Every feeling was dimmed though, as if happening a long way away. The pain in his head felt more like pressing an old bruise than anything else, even though that made no sense. A few of the memories which were beginning to drift back to him reminded him something that had hurt so much in an instant, something that was enough to knock him unconscious. That didn't match up with the slightly numb sensation here.
He tried to flex his fingers. They were curiously reluctant to move, but otherwise they seemed fine. As he carefully tried to move the rest of his muscles, instinctively checking himself for any further damage, he felt nothing except that weird weariness. More than anything, it was like waking up the next day after staying up until five in the morning.
It wasn't until after a few minutes that he realised that anything else was different. Everything that he registered was being examined and filed away without any emotion coming into it. He remembered doing this before in the mornings, except there had always been some extra feeling attached to discoveries, even if it was just relief at still being intact after a Danger Room session or plain annoyance at waking up early.
Strangely enough, when he strained, he could only dimly recall what he had felt before. It was like watching somebody else's reactions in a film, where you saw them without any real connection or understanding. All of those old memories seemed separate from him now.
A faint noise caught his attention and he glanced to his left. Mystique was standing there, arms crossed, watching him intently. One of her small, secretive smiles crossed her face when she saw him look at her.
"That's one of you then. Anything hurt?"
The words sounded innocent enough, possibly even bordering on caring. However, something instinctive in Bobby analysed them in a second, telling him that they were carefully calculated, just like everything else about her.
"Not really. Just a headache." For some reason the words cane out differently to how he remembered speaking before. His first instinct was to label his voice as dead, except that wasn't quite right. There wasn't a lack of life; it was simply missing any of the normal stresses that came into it naturally.
It sounded dead because there was no emotion in it.
From the strange flicker in her eyes, he could tell that she had spotted the change as well. It was only a small giveaway; most people would have probably missed it. Bobby's memory told him that yesterday he would have missed it too.
Except that sounded so stupid. It looked so obvious to him now. Every little movement seemed to catch his eyes, to be recognised and remembered later. He felt as if he couldn't miss a thing.
"Nothing else?" She moved to stand directly facing the bed, so that the only way for him to keep watching her was to lift up his head. Unfortunately, his neck refused to respond. She'd been expecting that, he could tell by how she'd moved. She was emphasising his weakness while putting herself in a position of power.
It sounded so melodramatic, so completely over the top, yet he still registered and analysed each point as easily and naturally as breathing. His mind itself was working differently, altering his perceptions in turn. That wasn't right; he knew that wasn't right, so why did it feel so normal?
He almost didn't say anything. A frighteningly alien voice in his head told him not to, but it was that which gave him the incentive to force the question out. "What…What happened to me?"
Instinctively he flinched as she suddenly leant forwards, both hands whipping out to support her as she stared intensely across the bed at him. "You don't remember?" she asked, her voice strangely eager. Maybe she just liked the idea of his mind being as messed up as it felt.
A blurry recollection did push itself into his mind at that point, possibly jarred loose by her expression. However, rather than help with whatever caused this, it instead showed him Mystique talking to him somewhere he didn't immediately recognise. Outside where they'd been before? What was she saying?
Even as he thought that, the image seemed to stand still, then replay itself obediently in front of his eyes exactly how it had been the first time.
"What are you willing to do for him if that happens? What are you willing to become?"
Better not to comment on that now, although it raised a very good point: What had he become? He definitely felt different to before, not merely in the physical tiredness but also deeper down inside. It was hard to describe, mainly because there seemed to be nothing there. A nothing that felt wrong, that could only be defined by its absence from its surroundings.
More than anything else, more than the sheer lethargy, more than the questions that both he and Mystique were asking, more than the instant calculative analysis and vivid recall, he felt…
Numb.
There was nothing left to feel. When he strained for emotions, he found them somehow out of reach. After each try, he discovered that he cared less and less about its implications.
He'd heard of this feeling before from others, where it got so cold that your skin couldn't feel anything. In a bizarre way, it was similar to burning yourself. For the time that it took to recover, your body's senses in the damaged areas essentially shut down.
There was one problem with that comparison though. Nobody had ever said anything about experiencing this in any way other than physically. So why did it feel as if his mind…his emotions…all of him had been numbed by ice? Frozen and left with no way to thaw out again.
Thawing… You needed heat for that. Fire. It was how they'd always balanced each other out before. Fires were frozen and ice was melted, simple as anything. Maybe this could be fixed just as easily. All he had to do was find—
Another memory flashed through his mind then, glimmering and in crystal clear focus.
And then, horribly, nightmarishly, he watched—
There was a quiver there, inside him. Could he feel something after all? Or was it simply a reaction to the frightening clarity of image replaying itself?
--crumple to the ground and lie there. As still as the dead.
'No. No. Nonono…' The wave of denial came from nowhere, washing over him and refusing to vanish like every other sensation had once it reached him. The despair and even fear that followed endured in the same way.
"Mystique," he said quietly, still not managing to express any of the newfound emotions through his voice, or indeed through anything other than his mind. "Where's John?"
The flames were getting closer to him, and there was nothing he could do about it. Simply watching them made him feel so pathetic, except there was no other real choice.
Now that it occurred to him, his body wasn't just hanging there; it was stiff like a doll's. Useless. Like when you have a nightmare and you can't run away, no matter how hard you try, as if it's not you in that body. His muscles might as well have burnt away already.
Thinking about it though, he didn't know that he'd burn. It seemed like a logical belief, yet he had a strange sense that something was…off. There was no other way to describe it really. John knew fire as well as anybody could, and something about this fire didn't feel right.
Then again, he'd been wrong about these things before.
He was pretty certain that something would happen to him if the fire touched him though. Judging by the bizarre circumstances, it wasn't likely to be a small singe or a light burn. He couldn't move to get away and those flames were easily large enough to flash-fry a forest.
Or perhaps not. Perspective was completely guessed at here. The crackling mass of red, orange, yellow and gold in front of him was all he could see, so there was nothing he could compare it to. He couldn't even look down to see himself.
The slightly bizarre thing (beyond the original situation) was that with every foot or so closer that the fire reached, John became less and less aware of his own body. He wasn't sure if it was because he was becoming more distracted or if there was something far more sinister going on. When he tried to think about it, his mind just started drifting off again.
His father was glaring down at him, pointing at the door, ignoring the quiet, pathetic whimpers of the woman behind him…
His mother was holding him in the cupboard, a duvet wrapped around them both, trying to keep a six year old quiet enough for them not to be discovered, so that they could finally sleep…
Another woman was kissing his father, out on the streets, without his mother knowing but with John watching wide-eyed and trying to think of what to do…
John wrenched himself away from those memories. They were coming from further back in time now, creeping backwards through the years. He'd heard of people dying seeing their lives flash before their eyes, but this seemed different. The time in between memories went so slowly, and when they crept up on him, they passed by so quickly. Nobody had ever mentioned it working in reverse either.
Of course, the only people who would really know how it worked weren't exactly in a position to tell anybody else.
Even if they could somehow let the world know, John was pretty certain that his situation would still be a mystery. He could be dead, yet he felt enough to imagine he was alive. Being able to see or think at all might indicate he was still living, although there was no way of telling if that was just how death was. The mind has to go somewhere, after all.
He guessed that it must be hot, especially since the flames had only grown in size rather than shrink. Strange that he wasn't registering it anymore. At the most it felt like a brief tingling burn from leaning against a radiator for too long, as opposed to the sweltering desert-like temperatures which he had experienced before.
That was bad, wasn't it? If he was adapting, then going back would be harder. He might not even want to leave at all.
Still, that assumed that it was possible to go back. John didn't even know how to start. For all intents and purposes, he was trapped here.
And the fire was only getting closer.
The woman's face was a gruesome mask of terror. Eyes wide, features twisted, mouth open in a silent scream. Her arms were held up in front of her to try and ward something off or maybe to fight her fate.
The whole effect was made worse by the fact she was dead. Dead and frozen in place.
Wolverine stood in front of her, staring, for some reason unable to really take it all in. He'd seen the news of course; they all had. But, as he had found so many times just in the small section of his life which he could remember, reality was always worse than any descriptions.
Take this woman, for example. The news had completely failed to properly describe the tortured expression alone, let alone the monstrosity of ice that had impaled her over and over again. There was blood in the ice itself, tingeing it with a light red. It unnerved him, because despite seeing blood, he couldn't smell it. The ice blocked it out.
It was the same for the rest of what remained of what had been a police station. With the amount of bodies and signs of fire, he should have been practically overwhelmed by the stench. Instead, all he could smell were the living people overseeing the area and the frosty smell of the ice. It brought back memories of the snowy landscape near Alkali Lake, and he didn't like it.
"Logan?" Caught up in the world of scent, Ororo's unexpected touch made him flinch. Turning, he could tell that she was worried, almost frightened. You didn't need any special senses to be able to see that much.
Their eyes met for a few seconds, before she looked away at the frozen woman. "They're going to try to thaw out the bodies, with their families' permission. They're saying that it's more important to let them be buried, since it looks obvious how they—" The last word seemed to catch in her throat, the shock at the event and the aftermath simply adding to the events at Alkali Lake just a few days ago.
"Besides, they want to get to…to..." A swallow covered up any traces of tears in her voice. It was the closest Logan had ever seen her come to actually breaking down. And even now, she was determined to try and hide it. "They want to get to the ashes. They think that they can identify everybody with enough DNA, so that's their main priority."
Apart from the slips, there was nothing in her voice to betray what her eyes showed. Cautiously, keeping an eye on the clear skies outside, Wolverine probed further. "Do you know how long we've got 'til they kick us out of here?"
A small cloud drifted across as she answered, "We're not supposed to be here officially. The Professors' masking us so that we're only noticed if we draw attention to ourselves."
"Best stop playing with the weather then," Logan muttered, watching several more clouds cover the sun while they all began to grow dark and heavy with rain. When the room turned dark, Storm followed his line of sight and sighed, waving a hand to dismiss them.
"I'm sorry. It's just…" She trailed off, looking around them. Her eyes lighted on a cop lying flat on his back, staring unseeing straight up at the ceiling, a stalagmite reaching into the air through his body. His position was mirrored by others around him, while many piles of ash could be seen suspended in the ice between them.
The image apparently gave her some sort of strength, or at least determination, since she spoke again more firmly without moving her gaze away. "It's hard to believe that we know the ones who did this. We trained them."
Logan nodded, understanding the emotions that she was trying to suppress. Then he looked at her, suddenly aware of another layer to her feelings. "It's not your fault. They got the same chance that the Professor gives everyone in that place. The difference is that they changed their minds, that's all."
"And then they caused this." Ororo tried to act normal, even force a smile, yet instead her eyes glimmered with unexpected tears. Irritably she wiped them away, annoyed by the weakness. She'd learnt that crying didn't make any difference before she was barely ten years old, so repeating herself this soon after shedding so many tears over Jean Grey merely made her vulnerable. "I'm sorry; I haven't been sleeping that—"
"Forget it." Wolverine was tempted to say something further, but decided against it. Now wasn't the time, and he definitely wasn't the person she should be talking to. Instead, he pointed out, "They didn't do this on their own. You can bet that Magneto was pushing them on the whole way."
"Then they should have known better!" Storm snapped, her sudden fury reflected in a single streak of lightning striking the roof. Fortunately the building was still protected against anything like that, except perhaps she wouldn't have cared either way. "John was bad enough, but Bobby…"
At the mention of the latter, her anger apparently vanished as suddenly as it had surfaced. Her body itself sagged, echoing her thoughts. "This doesn't seem like him, Logan. Something's wrong."
Her companion was checking around them to make sure the lightning hadn't attracted any unwanted attention. Most of the cops had jumped at the sound of the thunder which had followed, yet only one FBI agent close to the edges was looking a little too closely at them. Maybe his increased interest attracted the Professor's attention though, since he soon turned away to examine another body with one of her colleagues without any noticeable hesitation.
Still watching her in case of one of those tricks the FBI was so good at, Wolverine responded, "Not just how he's acting. His smell's changed, and that ain't natural."
The looks she gave him was inevitably confused, with worry there as well. "Could he change it deliberately?"
"Think you're giving the kid too much credit. 'Sides, it's deeper than some new shampoo or whatever, and he's not alone. Pyro's is different too." He sniffed, trying to get a firmer hold on it. "It's hard to get anything around here, but… Something smells burnt, and all the obvious stuff's buried under a foot of ice."
"And Bobby?" Something in her voice warned him not to try to lie to her. "What can you pick up from him?"
He didn't answer straight away, needing to focus on what he was doing. He knew his strange sniffing tended to annoy – even scare – most people, so he tried to save it for when it was actually required. With the ice masking most of the room, this was one of those times.
Finally he spoke slowly as certain traces filtered through to him. "He was here, same as ever at first. He got scared. Then he…" Wolverine frowned as he sorted out the different images coming to him into something he could describe so that she could understand.
"I think somebody got shot. Probably Pyro, 'cause the gunpowder's all mixed up with sulphur. After that…" Bobby's scent was spread out, almost across the whole room. That didn't make any sense though, because it didn't look like he'd moved from that one section near the entrance from the cells. What was that supposed to mean?
"Something happened. Something with his powers." That was the reason, he realised: Iceman's smell was too similar to the ice he created for them to be easily separated. "He froze, like the rest of this place."
Ororo waited, but her friend had apparently finished. Sighing, she looked around the station as she mentally signalled the Professor. "If that's the case, we don't need to stay here. We'd better get back to the mansion."
Logan nodded, his mind already rushing back to what would be waiting back there. Or rather, who.
"God, I'm sorry, Rogue."
There wasn't much of his life left to remember. A few flashes of a crib and his mother, nothing more. His whole lifetime, an entire seventeen years, everything gone so quickly.
He could have sworn there had been more to it than that, although his mind couldn't come up with anything else. All he wanted was for there to be one little thing left, just one more vivid memory. As much as he searched though, there was nothing.
The fire was so close now. Too close. He'd long since accepted that if it touched him, that would be it. Game over, thanks for playing, please try again. Still, with each inch it crept forwards, he could feel the fear grow inside him. After seeing what little there seemed to be of his life, he was more certain than ever that he didn't want to die. Not like this, at least.
Unsurprisingly, the flames didn't care. If anything, they grew higher and stronger, sending out fresh waves of heat (strange, he could sense that now, just a bit). Pyro welcomed them, drawing them deep inside himself. In away, that part of him was already joining with it.
As they approached and his life trailed away, John could feel small pieces of him starting to burn away. There wasn't any pattern he could see, merely various memories or thoughts. Anything and everything, in no particular order.
One very boring history lesson. Gone.
His old school as a kid. Gone.
The smell of his mother's cigarettes. Gone.
His father's face. Gone.
Maybe it wouldn't be so bad to forget it all. There was a lot of his life he'd rather not remember. Besides, there were whole sections of his memories that were simply getting stronger. Any emotions were intensifying, colouring their scenes in vibrant shades as the details faded away.
Emotions and fire. Anything connected to flames or his powers was apparently staying too. That was something, he guessed. Or would they go too when the inferno finally reached him?
There was something else as well, underneath it all. Something that hadn't been immediately obvious when he'd seen his memories flash past nearly faster than he could follow, yet was now becoming clearer as the thoughts around it were burnt away. It was starting to link together in a way he hadn't expected.
The strange hatred that had bordered on what felt weirdly like jealousy the first time he'd met Rogue.
A bizarre light-headedness as he felt a freezing hand against his skin.
An unexpected happiness when a friend gave up his whole upbringing to stay with him.
His mind was growing hotter, the thoughts of flame causing sparks and the heightened emotions warming the rest. Entire scenes were burning up from the inside as a surprising heat started to form at the core. Even if the approaching firestorm didn't reach him somehow, he might be able to finish the job himself.
And yet, even as John found himself considering giving into the overwhelming heat, there was, impossibly, some cold rising up from somewhere. The world around him was trying to melt it, but at the same time his own emotions were trying to protect it. It was as if his feelings for that one chilled fragment were almost stronger than the element that was attempting to consume him.
Almost. This was a fight, plain and simple, even if John was completely aware of it yet, and there was no way Pyro would let any part of John survive. If it meant turning on the same emotions that had helped to build his powers in the first place, then so be it.
After all, how long could any ice possibly survive surrounded by pure fire?
The Danger Room wasn't the only place to train at Xavier's. It simply wasn't practical to expect all students and staff members to use it, especially when it was limited to one use at a time. For that reason, the mansion also boasted a large gym, fitted with nearly every piece of equipment that its users could imagine.
Back when everything had been normal, before Bobby had been stolen from her, Marie had only come in here when it was necessary. Training sessions or lessons usually, or hanging around with two guys who thought they had something to prove. Average teenage stuff, with no hint of how it would all be torn apart.
Since then, Rogue had found herself wandering in here more and more often. Sometimes she did it deliberately to avoid people – encouraged exercise could be surprisingly useful – and other times she wasn't aware of making a conscious decision to do so. However, the regular workouts turned out to be soothing, giving her something else to focus on while still ensuring that she only got better.
Once she discovered the hefty punching bags close to the back of the gym, it became practically impossible to find her anywhere else in the mansion. Lessons continued as they always had, but Rogue increasingly found her attention drifting away to the few sessions she'd had with Wolverine so far or to the gym. Within less than a week, she almost didn't recognise the girl from before. It was like two different people, with only their faces in common.
The punching bags were useful because they acted as both workout and therapy. There was something about letting yourself go without any restraint, smashing the leather with an amount of force that wasn't allowed against a person when it was only practice. It was all too easy for Rogue to start imagining faces on the bag.
Or rather one face in particular.
Today that image was stronger than ever. Her surroundings blurred into insignificance, while the bag nearly seemed to become a solid person. Exactly what she needed.
Vaguely she was aware of voices around her. They were probably trying to talk to her, yet she didn't care. Whatever they had to say could just wait until she decided to hear it.
The few words whose meaning filtered through to her were recognisably Logan's. Maybe that was the reason she let herself hear them in the first place. It didn't stop her from carrying on punching though.
"Kid, I went to the station—"
The station. She'd heard about it on the news. An insane number of people had died there, she'd registered that much, except she solely cared about the ones responsible. Did that make her as bad as them?
"Looks like both of them did it, and they didn't hold back—"
No matter how many times she lashed out, the mental picture in front of her never changed. Pain shot up her arm, increasing with the strength of each punch, yet his face remained unchanged, right down to the victorious smirk that she longed to remove permanently. Why couldn't she watch him bleed? She wanted to hurt him, was that so hard to achieve?
"I'm sorry, kid. I don't want to say this, but Bobby seemed to—"
She spoke then, not pausing for one second in her motions. "It's not him."
There was a worried silence, followed by, "I know there's something not right here. Still, it's something wrong with him, that's all."
"Pyro's making him do it." The hateful name was accompanied by a particularly hard punch as she spat it out. She refused to call him anything more personal though. The mere thought of him made her want to do things she'd never even considered before, bad things, things that would get her chucked out of here for sure.
"Kid, he's not a telepath, he—"
"I don't care!" The power behind her attacks was sending the bag swinging away from her, forcing her to wait for it to come back. She shifted impatiently, the frustration at the delay only making her urge to lash out in any direction grow by the second. "I don't care about powers, I know he did something! Whatever anybody else says, that wasn't Bobby at the station! Pyro made him do it somehow!"
It had all fallen into place in the night after the broadcast. During the news, she hadn't been able to think straight. She'd seriously thought that Bobby had left her to become this. Afterwards though, she'd realised the truth. This was another part of Pyro's plot. He was the bad guy after all; these little manipulations and mind games were what bad guys did.
If Logan answered her, the words faded away into the background. The desire for revenge had boiled up once more, going from the steady simmer that lent her strength to the sheer power that could get her what she wanted. Pyro had already stolen Bobby from her, and now he was brainwashing him into becoming something he wasn't.
Marie knew these stories. It was the duty of the one left behind to save the one who had been taken and to kill the one who had done it. She'd never say that out loud of course, already guessing what the reaction would be. Instead she would wait for the opportune moment.
Wait for the time when she could kill Pyro.
The smallest strand of fire pulled away from the rest, slowly looping and weaving along its own separate path. The independent movement drew the attention of the trapped teenager before it. John's eyes followed it as it created curving patterns in the air, virtually hypnotising him with the movement. Pyro noticed that despite its apparent freedom, it was still part of the blaze behind it.
It wound its way towards him (them?), moving in ever more enticing motions, as if trying to draw the mutant towards it to save time. John was tempted, yet he remained unable to move at all. He could only watch with growing anticipation whilst it lengthened itself outwards to touch him.
Pyro stayed aware, or at least more aware than the more human side of himself. He recognised the game which the fire was playing, drawing out a victim with something small to hide its potential until the opportune moment, but he was content to let it take its course. After all, if it achieved its goal, he would benefit too.
The fire within him would increase beyond even what he had brushed against before he had been sent to this place, and John would be burnt away like the useless thing he was. A perfect solution.
Oblivious to his other half's realisation, John found himself gazing at the trailing spark with practically childlike wonder. When he abruptly found his arm freed without any explanation from whatever held it in place, he reached out unquestioningly towards the swirling light.
It seemed to pause momentarily, as if scared or simply playing with him. Without thinking, he moved his fingers slightly, calling it closer to him. He was still afraid of the burning furnace behind it, no doubt about that. This small trail appeared far less intimidating though. Safe.
He quickly discovered how wrong he was.
The tendril moved again, either at his command or of its own free will (if that was the right phrase in this case). Hesitantly it reached out, almost like a person, and lightly touched his hand.
In an instant, it caught hold and spread as fast as a wildfire, rushing up his arm to cover the rest of his body. As if receiving some unheard command, the waiting fire surged forwards to aid the attack. Within seconds, John was enveloped in a blaze comparable to the heart of the Sun.
The pain was excruciating. He could feel his skin cracking, burning away, trying to grow back (how was that possible? Who was he, Wolverine?), burning again. Before he could stop himself, he opened his mouth to scream. Instantly the flames took advantage of the opening, rushing to consume him from the inside as well.
Insanely, he could feel a strange exhilaration at how deep the flames were going. Some part of him responded to it, glorifying in its power. As John screamed in pain, Pyro laughed in triumph.
As his sight was filled with fire, the only changes being the brief flashes of the shadows that still surrounded him, one last coherent image managed to reach him for a brief moment. Even then it wasn't a whole picture, just the parts, here temporarily and then gone: Blonde hair, blue eyes, a laugh, an impossible blast of cold. They were trying to join together, to form something he could actually recognise, but at the same time were being twisted away from each other by the battling element around them, attempting to reduce them to ashes like all the rest.
Veins of ice spread across the glass, branching out and joining together as the window creaked under the strain. The source was a hand pressed up against it, although its owner didn't seem to realise. The same explained the growing puffs of condensing air.
Mystique warily watched the teenager next to her, for the first time feeling a slight twinge of unease around him. It could have been the way that his face stayed strangely blank, or more likely the way his powers seemed to be manifesting themselves independently from any obvious control. Whichever it was, something was definitely wrong about him now.
The same for the one inside the room they were looking into through the frozen window. The temperature around had kept escalating since they'd brought him back, to the extent that it was already too dangerous to go anywhere near him for any length of time.
Her eyes narrowed as she peered past the traces of ice. There was a heat haze above Pyro that had just thickened far beyond what had been in an impossibly short space of time. What now?
When a sudden chill passed across her body, she turned her attention back to Iceman. His hand had tensed against the glass, the added pressure threatening to shatter it entirely. On the opposite side, she could see the ice starting to melt, creating a virtual waterfall that blurred the view of Pyro almost completely.
Watching his expression, Mystique realised that it wasn't his powers that worried her, it was his eyes. The emotion, or rather lack of it, behind them gave him an inhuman appearance that would unsettle anyone. Something about the way he looked at Pyro as well, something she couldn't put her finger on.
Slowly she backed away down the corridor. She was retreating, she wasn't afraid to admit it. All she needed was a few minutes to adjust to the change, that was all. The same way Magneto had withdrawn to plot his next moves.
It was still a game, after all. A few changed pieces, a few new rules. And Mystique wouldn't let herself get beaten that easily by just two boys. Not when it was such a good game.
Author's Notes: Damn. It was all going so well before that last section. Okay, maybe not well, but better. Stupid section.
So, couple of days over three months. Actually it's probably more than a couple, but luckily for my sanity I count these things by months, not exact days. Does February mean I have a few extra days? How many excuses can I think of? Oh, never mind.
Ah, more introspective. I really should be getting tired of the inside of Bobby's head, but for some reason I just keep doing it. And it's the return of all that big meaningful representing stuff that should've died with the Phoenix bit (ironically). And more confusing flashbacks. It's like an entire chapter of all the bits that annoy people!
Sorry if some bits of this felt a bit off. Storm seems a little OOC, but I could imagine being a bit upset having two of her students go psycho a few days after her best friend dies… And yes, Rogue is going a little psycho herself. What fun! I enjoy this stuff way too much.
Not a whole lot to say really. The Pyro bits are all kinda…what the hell, but otherwise I think this chapter's a bit better than I remember (since I handwrite these things first, then type them up). I should really shut up if I've got nothing to say, or at least do the reviews…
Serious Fan: Wow, somebody actually reads the notes… And I agree! Yay for evil Bobby! Since he's the whole reason this story got written and all.
MarcoDylan: If it helps, even the writer forgets about this story sometimes… That is the problem with barely ever updating. But thanks for still reading it!
hanahana-chan: Trust me, this development will be affecting the relationship, just as soon as they can do anything without John being unconscious…
Solo Maxwell-Yamato: Well, here's another really long chapter, so at least that's something. The getting hurt thing probably wasn't completely essential, but very useful. And I love your description of last chapter. Perfect.
ScarexCrow: Your review made me so happy! Seriously, I love long reviews. I'm such a junkie. I know there are a few mistakes, since when I look back through these things after putting them up I always end up cringing most of the time. Unfortunately I never read through them first since by the time they're done I don't want to look at them anymore, so sorry if there are even more here! Glad it wasn't too much violence (although I don't remember a bunch of people just getting killed in any of the movies…). Glad you like how the pairing's doing, since not a whole lot's happened so far, so I thought a whole lot of people were going to start hating me from about the third chapter…
rry: Yeah, it would be a little creepy if you just sat (or stood) there and wrote out the whole plot just from guessing… Luckily I can tell you that it will be different (sorta. Gah, so hard to know how to respond to plot guesses!). Glad you liked evil!Bobby, since he's not exactly going away after this. And the –ness is actually next chapter now, so no pressure on me there to make it good. Which it won't be. Damn!
Marcus1233: Woo, long review. So long reply! Ouch, little kids attacking you. Sounds way worse than being pelted by beanbags too, obviously. Okay, so maybe I got carried away with the emotional pain thing. And all-powerful Xavier always annoyed me. Like, the best way of beating the X-Men seems to be just taking him out somehow. Sorry, more introspective here. Lots of it. Whoops. Um, is it good that my minor characters remind you of video game characters? Although now I can't read that section without picturing her doing all Lara Croft style stunts, so thanks for that. Um, the missing word was you, as in I will love you forever for taking the time, sorry about that. Seriously, don't worry about it, any reviews are good. And most of the time the chapters get here eventually… For this story at least.
X fuji X: Um… Do the periwinkle/crayons in general still survive if John just has trippiness for a chapter? Or does it start going into hostage/torture negotiations? Just hang on before you kill everything, okay?
monchy08: Glad you liked it all! Glad you like Bobby like that, or the rest of the story could be a little interesting to say the least.
Firerose: Woot for Heroes! Really worried about seeing the second series though, because everybody says it's really bad. Thanks for reviewing!
JustAnAmateur: …I was close to three months? For some reason writing about cops dying is very therapeutic, which is worrying. Hadn't thought about the amount of detail actually, but I guess I got more than a little carried away. Damn, so close in the score.
SupernaturalGal6: Eep. Your first? Glad you liked it, but I'd really recommend reading some more. And not just because I'm a fangirl, I know there's really cool stuff out there.
SSl4goku: Wow, really? That's pretty impressive, except my betting is that Phoenix would still beat him anyway, since writers everywhere have her as this ultimate power thing (even though she always gets beaten in the end). Glad you like this Bobby though.
Rukie: I made someone cry? Don't know if I should be honoured or ashamed. Um, please don't cry? At least it wasn't 7 months this time. (I am never going to forget that one.)
FREAKSHOW1: Indeed, evil Bobby is yummish. Or some word that actually exists.
omg: Well, here's update! Not much happening, but it's something, I guess.
Sckitzo and Insomniac: Well, we've already had some reactions, so we can safely say that nobody's overjoyed about psycho Bobby. I think Xavier tries not to encourage killing loads of people, so that's probably how he missed that Bobby could do it. Or maybe he knew and tried to stop it. Oh well.
PacificPiratess: Yeah, a very long time, oh dear. I do update, it's just really not as often as anybody would like, including me. If Pyro died, this would be a kinda weird story… And over before I've done a lot of the stuff I still want to do.
Tears Falling Freely: Thought I'd put my reply in here, since I didn't get round to replying immediately (which might have worried you a bit). I'm really glad you liked it so much, and these PMs are always a great way of at least reminding me that I'm supposed to be doings something. Thanks for prodding me, it helped a lot. The worst part is that I very rarely have a good excuse for long delays, especially this time. Sorry!
So, that's it then. See you all at some point hopefully not too far in the future, when we actually get to the proper Bobby/John part of the summary. Or at least more than we have been so far.
(Since I actually got some responses to the Heroes thing, I thought I'd try another one. Any Torchwood fans?)
