A/N: Thanks for reading. Sorry for the wait!

They Call Me Pyro

Chapter 2

Time

It's been quiet . . .

I've been quiet.

For a guy who has been in a coma for six years, you'd think I would want to use my voice after being silent for so long. I will eventually, as I have a lot to say, but only when the time is right and it is not that time. Speaking of time . . . hell, I don't know; I would have to guesstimate that it's been over forty-eight hours since I've awoken from my coma and I've been mostly out like a light. When I'm alert, I work on flexing my hands. I've lost count as to how many times I've made them into fists, but no matter what I try, they still feel stiff. When I get bored of that exercise I move on to tugging at the restraints. My upper strength has improved, but I still have to work on it.

The exercises keep my mind occupied. Otherwise, the same two words go round and round in my head: six years. Six years! I want to shout at the top of my lungs, but I don't. I want to punch something, but I can't. Defeated, I sighed and let my head fall into the pillow.

After a few minutes pass; I hear a buzz towards the front of the room right before Moira came through the door.

She planted herself at the foot of the bed and asked, "How are you doing today, Pyro?"

I shrugged.

"I'm going to start lowering the dosage of the medications. Are you currently in any pain?"

My eyes traveled from her face to my left hand. I flexed it once and looked at her again.

"I'll get to that, but does your head hurt at all?"

I replied with a shake of my head.

"Do you remember anything from Alcatraz?" I guess my facial expression answered her question because she didn't wait for my reply, and then she said, "Both of your hands were subjected to frostbite. I'm afraid the tautness is permanent and they'll throb in cold surroundings. I wish I had better news, but on the bright side . . . they didn't have to be amputated."

"Lucky me," I thought, rolling my eyes, and then I instantly realized that sarcasm felt right. It came naturally to me. Moira must've noticed the change in my mood as she silently observed me with those light blue eyes. It made me uncomfortable.

I lifted both of my arms as far as I could, using my eyes to do the asking.

"That decision is not up to me," she said, softly.

Frustrated, I made my arms go limp into the bed with a light, but audible thump.

Moira didn't offer an explanation and I didn't demand one. She picked up my medical chart, flipped between pages, and jotted notes. Her eyes were focused on the chart when she said, "I find it peculiar that you haven't spoken a word since waking up—" she paused and put the chart back in the bin hanging on the foot of the bed giving me her full attention. "What I'm trying to say is . . . you can talk when you're ready."

She gave me a warm smile and then walked over to the machines. I didn't pay attention to what she was doing as her visit brought more questions to the pile I already had. How the hell did I get frostbite especially in San—It Never Freezes—Francisco, and why would I go to Alcatraz?

Even though I assume Moira decreased the drugs that flowed through my veins, I still drifted off to sleep. I can't say if I dreamt while I was in a coma and I haven't dreamt in the past few days; so I can't say if what I saw was a dream or flashes of memories . . .

When I woke, my body was covered in sweat. My wrists hurt. I could only deduce from the pain that during my slumber I was pulling on the restraints which dug into my flesh. Those have got to go. I was tired of thinking about questions I didn't have answers to so I went back to obsessing over facts—a fact that I didn't get the chance to really mull over until now.

Pyro.

Fire.

Pyro . . . short for pyromaniac?

I sighed. I didn't see any burn scars and fire had nothing to do with frostbite. Then I thought, Pyro could be a nickname . . .

My thoughts were interrupted by the buzz of the door. Moira walked in followed by a tall man wearing red sunglasses and behind him was a woman with white shoulder-length hair and beautiful light brown skin.

Silence filled the room. It would've been awkward if not for the machines humming and beeping occasionally. I think they were waiting for me to speak, but I held my tongue. The nameless man and woman exchanged whispers. I was hoping my demeanor was neutral as that's what I was going for. I wanted to get out of the restraints . . . not have more put on, and something told me they made the decisions regarding them.

I was not enjoying this staring contest, so I rolled my wrist indicating that they should get on with it. I chuckled lightly to myself. Yeah, I'm a very, very busy guy.

The man tensed and said, "What's so funny?"

The white-haired woman put a hand on his shoulder. This dude was all kinds of serious. In only a few minutes, he managed to rub me the wrong way.

"J—," she stopped herself short, "Pyro, we need to talk."

I nodded and then held up my index finger. I was ready. "Wh-who-are-y-you?" I managed to get out.

She shared a quick glance with Mr. Serious. When she turned back to me she said, "My name is Ororo Munro and this is Scott Summers."

Eh, Mr. Serious suited him better.

"Do you know where you are?" Ororo asked.

"No clue."

"What's your name?"

"Py-ro?" Hell, even I wasn't exactly sure about that answer.

"That's the name you prefer, but what's your real name?"

"I was hoping you could tell me that. I believe you started to say it earlier, but stopped."

"Your name is John Allerdyce. You are currently in the medical bay of Xavier's Institute, which is located in Westchester New York."

Besides my name, the rest didn't mean much to me, but it was better than nothing. I didn't want to miss my chance to ask, so I blurted out, "Can you take the restraints off now?"

Ororo looked at Scott and he nodded. Moira went to one side of my bed to remove the cuff and Ororo went to the other. Moira applied ointment to the open wounds.

Ororo crossed her arms. "What do you remember about your life?"

I lifted my arms and intertwined my fingers behind my head. "Absolutely nothing."

As if she had all of the answers we all looked toward Moira. "Any doctor would tell you the same thing as I'm about to. We'll have to wait and see. I couldn't even give you a percentage as far as your chances of regaining your memories. It's just one of those things . . ."

I didn't say anything.

"Physically once you're better . . . and you're in familiar territory, perhaps you'll start regaining your memory. Do you have any other questions, John?"

My lips formed into a grin. "Call me Pyro."

A/N: That's right, Scott is not dead! Anyway . . . who should Pyro's first visitor be?