"Pyro? Still there?"
"Who are you? Why are you calling me?"
The man on the other side of the line chuckled. "What is your name?"
"What?"
"What is your name?"
"Why don't you tell me who the hell you are first?"
"You still don't get it, do you, Pyro? Fine, we'll play it your way. And here I thought you were a smart boy. We could have used you on our side, you know -- in the Brotherhood. You can't even imagine my disappointment when you wanted off the helicopter that day at Alkali Lake. Well, it doesn't matter now, does it?" The man sighed heavily. "I'm assuming you have heard about Alcatraz and what happened there? Of course, you have. Everybody knows about how those X-Men in their idiotic matching outfits saved fucking humanity."
He was startled for a moment -- more from the man on the phone swearing, it was strange to hear the cultured voice spit out a profanity like that. But then, it dawned on him. He realized who exactly he was talking to. The news reports...the heightened surveillance...the security alerts... "Magneto..."
"Very good, Pyro."
"But you were..."
"Not dead, my dear boy. Just...cured." He said the last word with as much disgust as a person could have for a single word. "It's partly my fault. Should have known that bastard Wolverine would finally get it through his thick metal skull that he could never defeat me alone. Should have followed my own rules, I guess. First rule of fighting is to always look what's coming at you, Pyro. Second rule is to always look behind you."
"Why are you telling me this?"
"Just something you should keep in mind."
"Why?"
"Still not getting it, are you? Let me explain something to you then: those men who came that night? Amateurs. Granted, they were amateurs who probably got there first but amateurs nonetheless. They thought it was going to be easy, a smash and grab job. They, of course, didn't count on the fact that you would actually fight back. Third rule of fighting: don't underestimate your opponent. Crucial, crucial rule to remember."
"I still don't understand. Do you know who they are? What the hell did they want?"
Instead of answering, Magneto mused aloud. "Did you know the cure isn't a cure at all? It's really a misnomer. It's more of a suppressor...a permanent and effective suppressor but not a cure at all. Those doctors at Worthington Laboratories sure did their homework, didn't they? Did you also know that they weren't the only ones working towards a cure, Pyro?"
"Why do you keep calling me that?"
"You did love fire, my boy. It's your name, your real name."
--
You feel like you're swimming...swimming in complete darkness.
No, wait, not complete darkness. You see it in the distance. A flickering light. It looks like...fire.
You think you're hallucinating. You can't even think straight -- you feel your lungs are about to burst if you don't take a breath but you know that the moment you open your mouth, it'll be your last.
You have to find the surface...but someone or something is holding you down, like it wants you to give up. It would be so easy to just slip into oblivion. But you can't let it win. It's not in you not to fight. You're not going to give up, you're definitely no quitter.
Then, all of a sudden, you break free and you can breathe.
"Oh my god! He's awake!" someone yells.
You open your eyes and you see you weren't swimming at all. You're in a bed, machines surround you, a series of beeping noises filling the room. You want to ask the people staring at you with wonder in their eyes questions but realize there's a tube down your throat.
"We're going to take it out soon. Just hold on."
You cough uncontrollably when they do finally take the tube out. Your throat is so dry and scratchy – someone eventually hands you a cup of water.
"I can't believe it! You're awake!" A woman hugs you so tightly, you feel like your ribs are going to break. She pulls back slightly, smoothing away your hair lovingly...like a mother would. You look at her, trying to figure it out...
"Who are you?" you ask. Your voice cracks slightly, still dry even with the water you drank down so greedily.
"It's me, Ben. It's mom."
"Mom?" You try to remember. You feel that you should remember something about her. You should remember your own mother...right?
"It's okay, Ben, it's normal. You fell pretty hard on your head. You probably have some memory loss. It'll come back. We're just so glad you're okay."
You just nod...wondering if it was normal too that you can't even remember being called Ben before...
--
He snapped out of his thoughts when Magneto cleared his throat in a very annoyed manner. "You know, I didn't call you just to chitchat."
"Why did you call me? Aren't you suppose to be the bad guy? Why are you helping me?"
Magneto laughed mirthlessly. "Everything's black and white to you, isn't it? X-Men are the good guys so that automatically makes me the bad guy. Well, let me tell you something: every superhero needs an adversary, everyone needs their Moriarty."
"Why don't you stop with the Sherlock Holmes crap and give me some answers?"
"My boy, I'm very impressed. Not a lot of people would have picked up on that. Maybe you're not so stupid after all." He paused for a moment. "I have no ulterior motives in helping you. I just want you to realize who you really are. And besides that, what's an evil ex-mutant going to do in his forced retirement years? Knit? Take up yoga? Maybe start organic farming? I don't think so. I still have associates who haven't completely abandoned me and they have kept me -- shall we say -- informed."
"This isn't exactly giving me answers."
"I'm sorry to say that I don't have any solid answers for you, Pyro. No, scratch that. I'm not sorry. It makes it more fun for me -- the mystery of it all. I just have a lot of speculation about what happened to you. For example, it is my speculation that although you may not be officially registered with any of those government lists, you've been cured of that lovely ability of yours to control fire...your mutation... Did you know you were a mutant, Pyro?"
"You're lying..."
"Am I?"
--
Joining the fire department wasn't your idea...you think. Your parents tell you that it was your dream to be a fireman but you can't remember if that was true or not. Then again, you can't really remember anything ever since they told you that you fell out of a window and hit your head.
But why would they lie to you? They're your parents...right?
So you joined. And it was actually pretty good. You enjoyed what you did.
Then came the day you fought your first really big building fire. It was an apartment building -- some guy fell asleep on his couch with a cigarette and his feeble attempts to put out the fire only made things worse.
You were trying to coax a cat out of its hiding place in a closet. The cat hissed at you on its way out, letting you know exactly how it felt about your feeble attempts, and you realized you should do the same before the ceiling collapsed around you. You finally make it outside when you realize that your arm feels like its on fire.
They take you to the hospital, just as a precaution. Your parents come when the nurse is bandaging your arm. They look at the blistering skin and they smile at each other, not realizing that you noticed it and wondered why they looked so happy that you got burnt.
--
"They knew... My parents... They knew, didn't they?"
"You still think of them as your parents. How cute."
"What the hell are you talking about now?"
"I think you need to get yourself to New York. You'll find the answers to your past there. As much as I hate to admit it, they'll be able to help you more than I can right now."
"I don't know anybody in New York."
"Don't you? I believe you received some unexpected visitors during your hospital stay."
"What... How did you... Have you been spying on me?"
"Ah, you do know how to make an old man laugh, my boy. Your little incident in Phoenix wasn't exactly hush-hush. It was on every news broadcast in the country. It was even broadcast in some foreign nations too, I might add. Oh, and let's not forget this lovely thing I've just recently discovered called the 'internet.' The story was all over that too. I believe CNN had the most comprehensive coverage, even had a family picture posted there. You and your wife made a fine couple, Pyro. Lovely children also. Quite the family. Well, anyways, getting back to my point, my associates had wanted to see you before those...those morons in their leather suits came but, somehow, they managed to get there first. And I'm sure they didn't leave without letting you know how to contact them when you were ready."
"Ready for what?"
"Ready to realize that the life you've been living has been nothing but a lie, of course."
--
You search through the photo albums, trying to piece together who you were before your accident.
There's pictures of what you think is the younger you -- swimming in a friend's pool, dressed up like a pumpkin for Halloween, standing with your parents in front of the Grand Canyon. But then you realize that there is something just not right about these pictures. The boy...he has green eyes.
When you ask your parents about it, they tell you that the pictures are old, the lighting was probably off in that shot, they're not green, don't be stupid, stop asking, do you want a sandwich, how about a soda... The subject would always get changed no matter how hard you tried to get them to answer your question.
You want to think that everything is fine. That you'll eventually get your memory back and you'll remember swimming in that pool and dressing in a pumpkin costume and seeing the Grand Canyon with your parents. That you'll remember what you have now was something you've always had.
--
He hung up the phone after the dial tone had been ringing in his ear for the past ten minutes. The conversation had ended as abruptly as it started.
He looked around the room -- it was like he was seeing it for the first time. He could feel the chill creeping through his body.
Everything was a lie.
He wasn't even sure why he was even listening to a man who had once wanted to destroy the world.
But the things he said...they somehow made sense.
He went back to the closet, he put everything back in the trunk -- the books, the old newspapers, all the clothes. He folded the track pants and the brown shirt and placed them back inside also. He closed the lid and pushed the trunk back where he had found it.
He grabbed the items he had decided to keep with him and went back to the phone.
For some reason, he had kept the business card that the old bald man in the wheelchair had left for him, even though a part of him wanted to tear it into bits and forget they had even came to see him. He could still see it -- the man with the claws, the same one from his dream, dropping on the ground with a bullet hole in his forehead. How had he survived? He guessed he'll find out soon enough.
He took a deep breath.
He was ready.
He flicked open the lighter and then closed it again, the sound of it bringing him some comfort as he dialed.
--
"Hello?"
"Senator?"
"Roger? What is it? Did something happen to my grandchildren?"
"No, no, sir. Everything's fine."
"Then why the hell are you calling at this ungodly hour? And I told you to call me on this line for emergencies only."
"Yes, I know, sir. But you also instructed me to let you know if your son-in-law received or made any unusual calls."
"And?"
"Well, sir, he received a call about an hour and half ago from a number we're still trying to track. But five minutes ago, he made a call to New York."
"Where in New York?"
"Westchester, sir."