Pyromane
(French for pyromaniac)
Disclaimer: Don't own X-Evo or any of the Acolytes, as much as it depresses me. Where do you think I got the inspiration for Zane?it will be understood later in the story, and no, it's not an OC, so do not fear
AN: Thanks for the reviews. I'm sorry it's taken so long to post this. I've been on a mad cleaning spree. I'm evil for making people wait. Bad me. The next chapter will be here soon though! And, this chapter is the longest yet! Don't hate me! I have two other Acolyte stories going. Gee, I sound desperate.
Beloved, beloved chips. I'll admit, that must sound weird, but I am truly hungry right now, and these definitely hit the spot. Albeit, I don't usually jump at the opportunity for salt and vinegar potato chips, but anything else in that cupboard—well, let's just say I'd be running a high risk of pulling out something blue and fuzzy, and I ain't talking about any of the X-Men.
My hunger finally suppressed, I again turn my attention to the table. On it is a couple newspapers from today—one local, one national. I take a look at the local headline:
"BAYVILLE PRINCIPAL EDWARD KELLY APPEALS TO SHOOL BOARD FOR NEW SAFETY LAWS REGARDING MUTANT ATTENDEES"
Right beneath the headline is a picture of said principal, next to which is a pull-quote of his, reading, "Regardless of moral issues, mutants are still highly dangerous weapons. We don't allow handguns in our schools, why allow mutants?"
I wonder how much trouble with the boss I'd get into if I went and blew up this idiot's car. Better yet, it's one more reason we should send Johnny there. Two days would pass and we'd see the administrative section in flames on the front page instead of this anti-mutant bullshit. And really, it wouldn't reflect badly on those more evolved. Any delinquent can get his hands on a lighter. It would only be negative for the image of pyromaniacal, sociopathic teenagers. And Australians, John already seems to have a good enough record that he's adding fire-crazed to the local stereotype. Or at least, that's what John said one of the police officers screamed at him the last time he was caught fleeing after torching someone's shed.
I glance at the national paper. The headline on that reads that nationwide anti-mutant rallies have caused property damage and traffic. What about how those rallies make any self-respecting mutant feel? Looking farther down the front page, I have my answer. There's a small blurb about a suicide. A mutant suicide. My eyes flashing over the article, I catch enough to not bother reading the rest, having gathered enough to feel sickened. The two words that stood out were "Good riddance!" I shake my head. Humans.
I turn back to the first newspaper, the Bayville Daily Edition, to distract my self from the disturbing knot my stomach has become. I do my best to avert my gaze from the headline article. One of the smaller front-page articles was a tale of an abandoned building mysteriously burning down. I read the first paragraph and turn several pages to the continued the tale. Apparently police contribute the blaze to "…the same perpetrator suspected in a string of arsons in the Westchester County area."
John's been out again.
"The true identity of this individual is unknown, but eyewitnesses having seen the individual leaving the scene of the crime have described him as male Caucasian, between 15 and 25 years old, blond or red-haired. He was wearing black pants, a red sweatshirt, and wore a blue baseball cap. While the start of the blaze was not witnessed, the individual seemed to take particular delight in the blaze…"
The article went on to say that witnesses seemed to have seen unexplainable shapes and figures in the flame. Many in the area also heard what was described as "cackling."
Funny, I've always thought of his laugh of that of the stereotypical insane-person laugh. Cackling makes him sound like a witch.
I apparently got myself very involved in the paper. I didn't notice the flamer himself come bounding into the kitchen. Until, of course, there was the sudden sound of him scraping the floor as he pulled the chair opposite me out. He sat with the chair turned backwards so he could lean his arms against the back as he stared at me. I sit glaring at him over the edge of my newspaper. I'm already upset from the main article, not to mention he almost blew our cover, again. Also, I for one don't like to be interrupted.
"What is it?" I ask. He's still just staring. Does this kid never blink?
"Hey, Rem?" I hate it when he calls me that. For one thing, my name is Remy, not Rem. Is the extra syllable that hard for him? Second, I like it much better if he calls me Gambit. But no… I'm Rem to him.
"What?" I growl again.
"Can I ask you a favor?"
"I'm listening." I have now the bored/disinterested tone to my voice. Also, I have a bad, bad feeling. He's using the innocent voice.
"Could you drive me to the store?"
This was what he bothered me for?
"Go ask Piotr,"
"I tried. He was drawing something again. I asked, he yelled for me to leave him alone, and threw a pencil with disturbing accuracy at my head. Then he yelled something else, but it was Russian. He either threatened me, insulted me, or swore because I was not impaled by said pencil."
Okay… Long explanation. Allow me to mention that he managed to say all that in about four seconds. He could give the boss's son a run for his money.
On the one hand, maybe Petey had the right idea. I'm in the kitchen, surrounded my knives… Well, they're on counter by the sink, but one would get the idea.
"Fine," I say instead. Using that crazy thing called logic, I decide that a drive would do me good. Distract me from the depression that is American news.
We have to go all the way back to my room, on the complete opposite side of the base, before actually going to the car. To be completely honest, I haven't got a clue where I left my keys. It seems like a logical place to start. He really didn't have to, but he followed me all the way, humming something I don't recognize. I spend several minutes trying to find the keys. I only ever use the motorcycle, so I never remember where the car keys are. Of course, after my room-wide search, it turned out I'd stowed them in one of the pockets in my coat.
Feeling decidedly stupid, he and I both head back across the fortress (really, what should I call this place?) to the garage. I spend a moment trying to find the right key. We have three identical cars here. I have a key for each on the ring, so I don't know which one is which all the time. Again, I never really use the cars. I'm a motorcycle man.
Upon determining the right key, I finally am able to open the import. I lower myself in and manage to start the car without having to go through another guess-and-check process with the keys. He hops in the other side quickly. He hasn't said anything the whole time since he asked me to give him a ride, but he's still humming that same song. It's really grating on my nerves. I try my best, somewhat successfully, to ignore it. In fact, I didn't notice when he said something.
"Remy, ya listening?"
"What?" It was only then that I noticed anything.
"I said," He sounded quite indignant about being ignored "Thanks again for the ride."
"Cela m'est égal."
I noticed in my peripheral that he was giving me a strange look.
"English, mate."
"Sorry. It's nothing."
He nodded.
In truth, I really didn't mind driving him. It was something to do. I'm sure he'd go himself—he's 17 and therefore old enough—but he has yet to pass a driving test. He's tried twice and failed. He's reckless in life, but it's even more disturbing when he's behind the wheel. I drove with him once when he had his permit. I honestly thought it was my last day on Earth. I feel I should mention that from then on it's been Piotr's task. After the whole tractor incident, I know he'd survive.
"Hey, Remy."
I snapped out of my thoughts.
"You do realize you're going the wrong way, don't you?"
"Merde."
I turned the car around, and with John pointing directions out as I was about to make any other wrong turns, we eventually made it to the store. It was just an average supermarket, like Shaw's or Stop & Shop, only it was a different local strain, Quick-Stop Groceries.
John was next to me, freeing himself from the confines of the seatbelt.
"Gambit'll be here," I said as he opened the door. Halfway through climbing out, he stopped.
"You aren't coming?"
"Should I be?"
"Um, I kinda need you to buy something for me."
I grumble some words of minor annoyance under my breath and climb out.
We walk into the store in silence. Just past the first set of automatic doors, I find myself needing to push the sunglasses further up my nose. The close-circuit camera had a screen just above the second doors. At first glance, I'd looked up to be met with my own red-on-black eyes staring back at me. The camera was at just the right angle to view past the glasses.
Through the second set of doors, I smirk. The woman who had been behind us was giving me a very confused look. I guess she'd viewed the camera shot as well.
"I'll meet up with ya in a minute, 'kay, Rem?"
I hadn't been paying attention to the John at the moment, but I managed to catch what he said. Only he would drag me in here so he could run off.
I move on through the store. Pass the time, pick up some more snack food… I wonder if Petey wanted anything. I'll grab him the usual—he loves the giant Hershey bars, the 7 o.z. things. The bars are small enough to fall into the five-finger discount category. With something in mind, I head down toward the candy aisle.
Aisle 7—it's paradise for any sugar aficionado. Half of the left side of the aisle is the small stuff one would get with the miniature shovels that they sell by the pound. The other half is the pre-packaged stuff. It's here where I wander to get Piotr's stuff. It's here that is my favorite part of the store. I myself love the Hershey brand. I see nothing wrong with still loving a good candy bar, even if I am a grown man. Well, 19, at least. I grab a few of the goodies—two Hershey bars and one of the giant Caramellos (another personal favorite). I quickly scan my surroundings. There aren't any other customers watching. The camera is in a stage of its scan facing away from me. I take the moment to slip the goods into one of the many pockets of my duster.
"G'day, Rem. I see you've taken to a bit of light shopping yourself, eh?"
I jump. Where the hell did he just come from?
"I just wanted to tell you, they got a new shipment o' Hoyle cards for you to clear out. Thought you'd like to know in case the boss has any missions planned he hasn't told us about yet."
With my heart still futilely trying to slow down, I nod to him in thanks. He goes bounding off again. I wonder what in the world it is that he came here for. The only thing he had just then was a bag of chips he'd already started eating.
I continue up the other side of the aisle. This side is more odds-n-ends items. There are some cheap toys, candles, greeting cards, school supplies, and books.
I stop again and grab a package of expensive, quality-looking pencils from the school supplies section, yet another gift for the comrade. I'm actually amazed at how considerate I'm being today. Not that I'm selfish or anything (we have Quicksilver for that), but I usually only steal things for myself. I'd probably get something for my other true teammates at the rate I'm going, but John's shopping for himself, and somehow I think that Vic would take offense to a stuffed mouse.
I pull off another simple steal as the camera pans away before moving on. I pass the racks of cheap murder mysteries and gushy romance novels. I really do think that some of John's work should be displayed there. It's just the kind of genre he writes 90 percent of the time.
I've actually been catching up on most of the Saint's work. He'd kill me if he ever found out. I'm still the only one who knows he writes, and he doesn't know that I know. I hate the sickening romance, but it's interesting, there's just the novelty because it's written by someone I know.
His latest work is different from most of his stuff. It still involves romance, but it's nowhere near so prominent. It's not so fairy tale-like. It's about some guy named Zane that's in love with a woman who does not share the feeling. Zane gets so desperate and depressed that he's ready to kill himself. He tries, but is found and taken to the hospital. After that, he gets sent to a psychiatric hospital. The stories not finished, but it's to the point where he seems to be falling instead for the woman doctor who's helping him. I think that the more than doctor/patient relationship is just closure so the book isn't too depressing. Zane's attempt at a relationship with the first woman takes up most of the book, as well as his psychological degeneration. The suicide attempt did seem to be the climax. That story should go in an actual bookstore.
I go around more of the store, grabbing some pre-baked muffins for breakfast and a soda. I don't want to leave empty-handed, I think it would call forth some suspicion. Now I just wonder where John went. It's getting late, and I want to get back to base.
"Oh dear lord…" I turn to the sound of his voice, again in complete shock. How is it that he's the only one who can sneak up on me without my notice? He must have paid really close attention during stealth training.
I notice that he's looking at me strangely.
"What now?"
"I don't bloody well believe it…"
"What do you mean?" He has a look of absolute shock and disbelief on his face. I'm quickly becoming suspicious, even paranoid. What the hell is going on?
"It's just that… Wow." He has a tone of great awe in his voice.
"What already?!"
"You… You're actually gonna pay for something!"
I groan inwardly as I scowl at him. I actually let him lead me on. The little…heh heh. I probably shouldn't say that.
Meanwhile, he's standing in front of me, the look of shock gone, replaced by his usual wide grin. He's doubled over, clutching his stomach and laughing almost hysterically. Not to mention he's crushing the bag of chips he'd had earlier. I hate it when he has fun at my expense.
"Oui, oui… Très amusant. Now are you ready to go yet?"
"Oh…yeah…whatever…" He was struggling to talk between laughs. He straightened up and started walking along with me, failingly trying to stifle the remaining laughs in his system.
He finally fell silent as we headed toward checkout, though he still seemed greatly amused, probably playing everything out again in his mind. He takes great pride when people fall for his acting.
"So, what did you need bought, anyway?" I ask cautiously. I'm afraid he'll burst out into another fit of laughter at any moment.
"Oh yeah. Um, I'll give you the money right now and everything…"
"Obviously it's not going to be a gift,"
"Yeah, it's just…"
"Well, what is it already?"
"I need you to buy me a new lighter."
"Are you kidding?" What happened to the last one? He guarded it like it was his most prized possession. Come to think of it, it probably was.
"No…" I noticed he looked kind of sad about it. "I dropped it the last time I was…out."
"You mean when you torched that building?"
He looked quite pale suddenly.
"How did you know about that?"
"It's in the paper," I grabbed a copy off the rack by the conveyor and handed it to him. He seemed to get even paler.
"I'm dead," he whispered. "Shit, Remy, do you realize how much trouble I'm in if the boss sees this? He got pissed off enough last time…"
"Well, we can just hope he doesn't find it." I'm trying to think of some way to make him not so worried. "So, which lighter did you want?"
He pointed out one very similar to his old lighter—a brushed silver Zippo engraved with a spiral symbol that looked like a crop circle. He slipped me the money to buy it. He couldn't himself, because there's some policy, be it a store or a state thing, that says incendiary devices cannot be sold to anyone under the age of 18. He's just that one fateful year short of the cutoff.
He seemed a lot less nervous by the time we'd made our purchases and got back to the car. Maybe it was the distraction of the lighter, which he was already busy flicking on and off. Maybe it was the fact that I'd told him about 12 times that it was extremely unlikely that Magneto would come through the kitchen and start flipping through the paper. Either way, it was better than him standing white-faced chanting the mantra 'I'm dead.'
It's been two days since the building he was responsible for torching burnt down. The one thing I'm most surprised by, seeing as how it is his main source of entertainment: How did he get by two days without is lighter?
To be continued…
Special thanks to all those who have reviewed! You truly do make writing this worthwhile.
Dark-English-Rose
ahra
Scurvy Kat (again! Yay!)
Pyromaniac (yet another review! I'm glad you guys like this so much as to actually continue reading it)
Snitter in Rivendell (how many different ways can I say thanks for reviewing both chapters? Thanks for making me a favorite!)
N'Awlins Demon Lover (2 fer 1 deal! Were they supposed to be the same?)
Faeryeyes- bad ff.net! Hiss!
Rakuril
Jadehunter- you're the second person to mention an idea that's already in the works. Weird.