Pyromane

(French for Pyromaniac)

DISCLAIMER: Don't own X-Men Evo, or specifically Remy, John, or Piotr.

AN: Celebrate! This is my first post in somewhere around two years. Sorry to anyone who may have been a fan of mine. I thought this up earlier today, and it is definitely not complete. I just wanted to post what I already have done. Also, note that this is from Remy's POV, and I did not use any sort of accent. This seems to me a fine way for him to think.

Remy observes one of his current teammates.

I can hear the now all-too-familiar crackling coming from his room right now. I was on my way down to the kitchen, and the only path is past his room. It's surprisingly clear, the subtle sound of the fire, but that's only because he hasn't latched his door, again. He had a habit of it. I pause for a moment, I can see him through the gap. He's lying on his stomach on the bare floor, parallel to the bed, his head propped up with one hand. His legs are hanging up in the air behind him, crossed as they sway lazily forward and back. In front of him is his altar, a decent-sized slab of stone about an inch thick the Magneto gave him so he couldn't scorch the floor any longer. On the slab, is a small, free-standing fire. It isn't on a candle, there's just the few small pieces of wood crackling as the fire slowly consumes them. He was just lying there watching it. Not touching it with his power, but just admiring it in its raw state. For the moment, it seems better than television to him. He did this a lot, like a ritual. That's why I call the thing an altar. He doesn't call it anything.

I decide to move on before he notices me staring at him and asks the question I wouldn't know the answer to: why? It just seems to be what I do. Observe. That seems to explain a lot about me. I observe, and I gather the kind of information from it that others don't even see.

I keep walking toward my destination, my stomach urging me on. I can still hear the tiny crackle of John's current activity, but it's slowly being replaced by the sounds of my boots tapping along the floor. I'm not sure why, but my mind is drifting back to John. His room comes back to me in complete clarity, as I have seen it many times before. The walls are plastered with posters, most of rock bands I'd never heard of but have had to listen to the countless times he decided to blast his stereo. There's a half-empty box of matches, along with several candles, on his nightstand. Clothes are scattered about, though the majority of it is heaped in to corner waiting to be washed. Despite the face the rest of us keep our battle gear in the lockers near the training room, he keeps his flame-thrower at the end of his bed. His lighter it always out of sight, tucked readily in his pocket, but also occasionally makes an appearance of the nightstand.

It seems kind of sad sometimes. He's still, despite his great power and mania, just another average teenage boy under everything. He hasn't broken out of it yet, like myself and the others, though neither me nor Piotr are much older. I've known a lot longer than most people what the world is really like. He's still trapped in his little world of fire, still in his mind the glorious hero Pyro.

The kid really is true to his name. He loves fire as if it were more important than blood, which is strange seeing as how it is, despite his ways of bringing it to "life," still inanimate. He could, and has, talked to a form he's made out of it for hours. I'm not sure if he hears anything back. I think what he can do is too much for his hormone-flooded teen mind. He has complete control over something that should be impossible to control. He has overcome, by natural selection, something that mankind has tried in vain to control for most of their species' existence.

He loves everything about the flame, and he has an almost equal taste for destruction. That's why he's always so giddy whenever he can use his element like that. He just let's his imagination fly in battle and that is exactly what will rise before him to do his bidding. He shouldn't be able to; Hell, he should be sitting around in school still. He should be junior, I think.

But, no, John doesn't go to school. Instead, he sits around whichever current lair we have all day. Half the time, there's not even something so simple as a TV around to keep his overactive brain occupied. He doesn't train, 'cause we all know he already has control, and to him it's just another chore. It all combines to bore him out of his mind. More than likely, boredom is another factor in his mania. He spends all day concocting ways to keep himself occupied, however strange it may be. It usually ends up in much annoyance for the rest of us.

I really wish he did go to school sometimes. He'd probably do great there too. He's a lot smarter than anyone expects him to be. He could easily be in Honors level, especially English. His imagination goes to work a lot into the stories he writes. No one knows he writes, though. I went in to wake him up for training, and during the long time my prodding took to wake him up, I noticed at small notebook sticking out from between the headboard an the mattress. There was still a pen hooked behind his ear. I was curious, so I pulled out the notebook silently, and began flipping through it. I read bits here and there. The story was almost sickeningly romantic, but still, it was surprising good. Especially when factoring in the fact is was written by a psychopath. John jerked suddenly, though, most likely having a nightmare. It startled me enough to stick the book back into its hiding spot, afraid of him waking up and catching me. Confident that it looked like I'd done no wrong, I continued my efforts to make his now-tossing form. Annoyed, I pulled out my Bo staff and finally just started prodding him with it. I'd once had the joy of being woken up by him staring at me and continuously poking my shoulder. I still haven't figured out why; he claimed it was because he wanted to test 'unconventional methods.' After a while, he woke up—I'd sorta resorted to poking him in the forehead—and grudgingly got up. I didn't bother to inform him he now had black ink streaks all over the left side of his face as he raced down to get breakfast still in a T-shirt and boxers. I left, already late for training.

I'm suddenly finding myself in the kitchen, having been so absorbed in thought that I hadn't noticed my progress. My stomach is again demanding I recognize its existence. I walk across the room to the fridge, pulling out the leftovers of my on culinary endeavors two days prior. It seemed I was the only one who found my levels of spiciness at all edible. John and Piotr tried it, graciously enough. It wasn't often anyone but Piotr did actual cooking. We didn't exactly trust John with the stove, sans a few exceptions to make himself Ramen. After one bite of my, to me, masterpiece, John ran out of the room screaming that his tongue was on fire, and "not in the good way." Piotr ate his portion, but I noticed he downed about five times more drink than he usually did. He too left the room with a strange expression on his face. I'm don't know much about Russian cuisine, but I'm guessing it's a lot blander than what I make.

I shove the last serving, still in the plastic tupperware, into the microwave, I sit back and wait for it to heat up. I dared not turn it up too much, after John's demonstration of why you should follow directions. Really, sometimes a person could think he's a genius, but others—he's completely incapable. There was one time he wanted nothing more than a bagel. He managed to blow up the microwave.

To Be Continued… We learn how he blew up the microwave as Gambit delves into his memories in an attempt to analyze the fire fiend.