Away from the fire, Chapter 2

He is alone, and so cold! No softness in this cell; it is a room of rock and metal, hard planes and sharp edges. Hard enough to bruise, sharp enough to cut; flung without relief into the bare room, he knows this well. His injuries hurt even worse as another frigid breeze hisses through his window.

Helpless tears streak down his cheeks, and he bites his lip until the blood flows, just to feel the warm burn of new pain. Too quickly, even that fades from soft flame to icy sharpness.

And it's gone, it's all gone. The power; the dizzying intoxication of it, the warm-silk caress of open fire, burning in his mind. He is hollow, empty (nothing but a normal, nothing to distinguish you, nothing to make anyone look twice). It's horrible. It's why he never tried drugs; he already knows what withdrawal feels like.

His hands fumble, knotting around each other; frantic spiders, with no more web. Always, they would curl around the lighter, feel its cool-warm smoothness, feel the flicker of heat and the rush of power, saving him from the cruel cold dark. But it's gone now; they stole it, hid it, robbed him of his everything, robbed him of his own genes.

His fingers scrabble at the wall with a mad single-mindedness that drives him past sleep and despair. Past food and water - but that's not a problem. They have offered him none, not since they shut him in here. How many days ago? Two? Three?

His fingertips are blistered and bleeding, and his movements are driven by desperation, not strength. How many days has it been? Three? Four?

Another nail breaks off, with a pain that would make him cry out, were it not a breath in a hurricane compared to the inescapable agony that had become his entire existence. How many days has it been? Four? Five?

A piece of stone crumbles to the floor, and John clutches it with near-crippled fingers, holding it with the reverence deserved for the most precious of jewels. Caresses the two smoothed sides, planed flat with the hand of man, and the crumbled, jagged curved of the rest, hacked out with the claws of a half-mad mutant. He stopped trying to count the days.

He crawls over to the bars of his cell. The first touch of stone on metal grates grindingly in the ear, as John scrapes his jewel over his prison. The second touch taps dully and uncertainly, a tiny chink in the thin, cold air. The third touch carries more of need and rage then finesse, and it rings clearly, reverberating like a bell in the silence.

It was the third touch that did it; made the tiny speck of light in the darkness, a light that lit all the fires within him again. He cried out, the ecstasy even sweeter after so long without it. And then it goes, dies away and he is left with hot tears on his cheeks and a whetted craving in his soul.

The fourth touch, he uses: he grabs the spark in an instant, holding it safe in his hands, smiling like a mother with a newborn baby as it slowly, gradually grows, dancing in his palm and in his eyes. He stands, feeling strong once again, more than mortal once again, even though his body shakes from hunger and thirst.

And then he lets it go; like his angry explosions with the police who tried to take them, like his vindictive executions of Magneto's Normal prisoners. But all he throws it against is a cold stone wall, and he flees from there, fear sour in his mouth and remorse acid in his soul.