"NO! Let me out! Someone!"

Pyro's fists banged on the large metal door in front of him frantically. Sweat started to form in tiny beads on his worried face as he screamed for his life. Pound. Pound. Pound. Every hit of his fists on the door echoed in his brain, but no sound could be heard from the outside. No one could hear his cries, and no one could help him.

"Someone, please!" John's hands slowed in their attacks on the door and he sank to the padded ground, both palms facing the cold steel. His head bowed in stunned silence as sweat and tears rolled down his cheeks. All motion of his hands ceased as John sat for a moment in disbelief. How could he be here? Why was he in an asylum? All of a sudden, he started to shake; his hands trembled with distinctive fear.

Each pitiful tear that fell from his eyes dropped to the padded floor. Pyro watched absently as they were absorbed into the fabric. Each salty tear rolled down his cheeks, or the bridge of his nose, his chin, and fell deftly on to the ground of his padded prison. His prison. John's mind was struck with acute terror and his body shook even more violently than before. Frantically, as if it were a life and death matter, he searched his pockets for his lighter. No such thing was found.

"SOMEONE!" He screamed again, hoping vainly that someone would hear him and come to his rescue. No one did for the next few hours, and John somberly sank to the floor, his fists red from pounding on metal, his brow trickling sweat, his mind in a state of definite corruption.

_______

"He's categorically insane."

"No, that's not so."

"I'm sorry, but there is no other way."

"There has to be."

"No. This is it, and we will not fail."

________

Hours flew by before Pyro even stirred. His head ached like a burning inferno and his whole body was sticky with old sweat. Not bothering to get up, he took an intent note of his surroundings for the first time.

'It's a big, fucking padded room.'

And that was it. There were no other ways in which to describe it; it was simply that: a padded room. No furniture of any kind embellished this room. It was simply a square hellhole with pristine white cotton coverings filled with soft inner fabric. It was just then when Pyro found peace. He learned not to be frantic or afraid of his situation and he began to ponder a way out.

Carefully, he ran his eyes over the room. It didn't seem like it mattered where he started- it was all the same. Turning around to where his back used to be, he ran his fingers over the cotton fabric that made up the walls and found the stitching; he dug into the thread like his life depended on it.

Soon, one small piece of white thread came loose enough for him to slide his pinky into. He pulled harder, until finally, John broke one end of the string and pulled the still-intact end through the next hole above it. Pyro knew that this idea was going to take hours, but it was the only plan that he had. The people that brought him there- trapped him rather- had left him with nothing sharp at all to use. This was the only way.

No one came to visit him for hours upon hours. Pyro, not even having a watch, couldn't tell if it had been a day or just merely breaking the fine evening hours. Honestly, he didn't care. He had pulled out the string until it was approximately one foot long. Two sides of one of the panels of cotton fabric had been released from their prison, and exposed what lay inside. Some white linen fell out of the cotton fabric and Pyro threw it aside. Rapidly, he ripped at the single panel and scratched at the wall. What he found was not what he expected.

Concrete.

Thick, solid, gray concrete. John kneeled there for a moment just staring at his discovery. He had just spent all of that time with that one thread, trying to escape, and there was concrete. His face found his hands as he tried to hide his frustration from himself. Suddenly, the door behind him opened. It wasn't the Swamp Lady, nor was it a man, but someone else that he had never seen.

"St. John Allerdyce, I presume?" The figure questioned him and he absently shook his head. John tried to answer, but his throat felt covered with dust from lack of use, but aching from the screaming he had done before. Shaking the confusion away, he focused with weary eyes on the form in front of him.

"My name is-" John thought she was going to say some normal, birth-given name, but instead she spat, "of no importance to you." That took him aback and the figure had his immediate attention, or what was left of it.

She was female, with auburn hair, streaked with blonde. Her shape was nothing extraordinary, but it certainly wasn't average; something about this woman made Pyro suddenly feel discomfort. The woman's lips curled into a malicious smile as she neared John. Instinctively, he backed away, but was soon met with the section of padded wall that he had ripped out. The woman kneeled in front of him and began to talk, her smile still intact on her smooth face.

"I didn't think I'd be seeing you anytime soon, Mr. Allerdyce. Really, this is a pleasure to finally be seeing you after so long. I've quite almost forgotten what you look like." She eyed him and John hurriedly directed his eyes away from hers, "Do I know you?" He managed to form the words. She only smiled again. That smile sent shivers through his spine and made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He didn't like this woman. What did she want?

"You're probably wondering what I want." John shuddered at her words; it was eerie how she had just spoken his exact thoughts. Still, she spoke, "You know, you give a guy everything he wants, and he still isn't grateful?" The woman stood up and looked down at him, "Do you know anyone like that, Pyro- anyone that just isn't grateful for all of your promises of power and security? Hmm?"

John didn't like this. He started to rise, but she raised her hand up in protest, "No, don't get up." A smirk, "However, you certainly did that one night..."

Oh God.

Silence fell between the two, but two different types of silence. John was trapped in another void where nothing moved and every single thing was vague and confusing. The eerie woman's silence was mocking and malicious. Yes, he knew who this woman was, but... how could it be?

Pyro looked up into her eyes, "Why is this happening?" He whispered. She only turned away from him and headed toward the door. "My dear, Pyro, not everything works out according to your plans. Sometimes," she took a deep breath and smiled, "sometimes things just turn around and bite you in the ass."

Yellow eyes flashed in his direction and her voice sounded again, "You should have made sure that you killed me. Next time we meet in violence, your blood will flow through your eyes; I will spread your interior across the walls. You will die, Pyro. Make no mistake of that." The woman was halfway through the door when she turned back around and added, "Oh yes, I forgot: you will be released from this room soon, but you won't like what happens. I guarantee that." With that, she slammed the metal door behind her and left Pyro to think.

She wasn't dead. 'She's not dead. But how?" That very question seared his wounded mind, seemed to burn through his tender flesh and run through his very veins. Pyro did not know what was in store for himself, but the woman had told him that he would not like it.

Yes, he believed that that particular mutant could bestow definite hell upon his being. Why? Because she was Mystique.