A/N: Thanks for reading. I hope you enjoy the next installment.

They Call Me Pyro

Chapter 6

Scars of War

'Who did this to me?' It was a question I hadn't really had the time to ponder. Perhaps it surfaced from what she was telling me about Erik.

"A foe on the battlefield, but he was a friend first," she told me in a neutral tone, and added, "he was defending himself."

'Battlefield?' That word stood out—a word that ordinary people don't have to use often, if ever. "From me?"

"Yes."

I looked at my hands. "Harsh."

"War typically is."

Another word that I wasn't expecting. My eyes remained set on my damaged hands. "Were you there?"

"No, I was not," she replied, "but I know everything."

'If I could remember, would I be ashamed or proud?' I reflected. 'I don't feel much of anything, but I can't be blamed for that . . . everything is still a blur.'

"Does that person live here?" I asked.

Rogue nodded.

"I want to see him," I told her, my tone firm with determination. She looked uneasy.

"I'll see if that can be arranged, but to be frank, he didn't want to a few days ago. He was adamant about it too." She studied me for a moment as she played with the diamond ring on her left hand, and said, "Can I ask why?"

The wedding ring was far from tiny. Why hadn't I noticed it until now? I could've sworn it wasn't there a minute ago. I have to work on observation skills, it seems.

My reply should've been 'to apologize', but instead I said, "I think it's important." I stood up, walked to the nightstand and grabbed the bottled water. Once I opened the cap, I took a swig. "What can you tell me about my parents? Are they among the living?"

"From what I know, nothing has changed since your coma. Your father has been dead for a while now, but that's old news . . . to the post-coma. Your mother is alive. They kicked you out of the house when you were a teenager."

I nodded once. "Any siblings?"

In response, she shook her head and then the corners of her mouth quirked upward. "You probably have no clue."

I cocked my head to the side and furrowed my brows.

"You're Australian."

"I don't have an accent."

"You said you wanted to rid yourself of the past, so you dropped it over time," she explained. "It's been years since I heard "g'day" or "mate" from you."

I laughed at her failed attempt at Australian dialect and she followed suit.

As the laughter faded, Rogue glanced at her watch. "Anything else you want to ask before I clock in some shut-eye?"

I didn't want my head to explode, so I chose a simple question. "What other names are Logan and Erik known by?"

'Storm, Cyclops, Wolverine, Magneto . . .'

While sprawled in bed, I repeated those names over and over seeking to trigger more memories. I switched between silently and out loud. 'One more time,' I decided. Changing the sequence, I started with Erik's first. Halfway through Logan's, one surfaced.

A few chess pieces made out of ivory stood in their respective squares. The older man's face was inscrutable as he waited for his turn.

Pyro took his time planning his next move. He was currently winning, but the wrong move could swiftly end the game, and once again he'd fall to his opponent as he had many times before.

'Smirk all you want, Pyro. Playing with ivory rather than metal isn't the reason you are winning this time. I don't cheat at chess,' Erik insisted. 'You're intent on beating me, so you're playing the game as it should be played,' he paused, "with precision and patience.'

After a few heartbeats, he replied, 'I figured using a different chess set for a change would be appealing. The pieces are refined and polished. You can't deny that this sophisticated set meets every single standard of yours.' Pyro clutched his Queen and moved it. 'I stole it just for you, Boss.' His gaze remained on the board game as he grinned, purposely uttering the title Magneto despised and for the single word he'd been itching to announce since learning the game. "Checkmate."

"Useless," I muttered, and then quickly realized it wasn't entirely pointless. I slapped the bed in revelation. "'Boss' is Erik! At least I can put a face to the name."

At some point in the wee hours of the morning, I fell into a deep dreamless slumber.

I awoke to sunlight hitting me in the face. It pierced through the small space where the curtains meet forcing me to squint as I wiped some drool from the corner of my mouth with the back of my hand. Rolling to a sitting position, I turned my back on the trespassing sunshine. Wiping away the sleep from my eyes, I noticed it was close to noon. After I stretched, I got to my feet and started for the bathroom when something by the door caught my attention . . . a yellow post-it note. I bent down, picked it up and read:

As soon as you read this...

Come find me.

(Try the library first)

R

She wrote the initial with a long obnoxious tail—the blue pen mark faded just before the edge—which made me smirk. I crumpled the note in my fist to throw it away, but I changed my mind just before the small paper ball left my fingertips. I used the table to try to smooth it out as best I could. Apparently, this would be "out-of-character" but I didn't care. Perhaps I'm a changed man.

It took me about fifteen to twenty minutes to look presentable. I had on a dark green t-shirt, jeans with a clearly visible tear on the right knee, and black and white Vans sneakers. The biggest decision: should I wear the hoodie? That article of clothing was like a cozy embrace of comfort. After a few minutes of indecision, I finally concluded that the extra layer was mandatory. I quickly pulled it on while I exited the room to find the library.

Every person I had to ask was helpful even though the disdain was clearly visible. I didn't hold it against them as they probably had every right. I'm a lone shark surrounded by a pod of dolphins.

As I rounded the corner I held my breath. If she weren't there I'd have to ask for more help. It was getting harder and harder to pretend, but to my relief, she was in the library reading a paperback book. I'd estimate she was mid-way through it. She was so lost in the story that she didn't notice I was in the threshold. My intent was not to startle her so I cleared my throat to make my presence known. Rogue glanced at me with a soft smile and said, "Have a seat. I'll be right with you after I finish this chapter. I'm almost done."

If I sat, I feared all I would do is stare at her, so instead, I remained standing to browse the titles of the books on the shelves. I reached out and ran the tips of my fingers over the indented lettering for The Once and Future King. This book stood out among the rest, but I couldn't quite pinpoint why.

"Pyro!"

My head quickly turned in Rogue's direction.

"I apologize for raising my voice," she said, her voice back to its standard pitch, "but you weren't responding to 'John'."

I waved her off. "Apology not needed," I assured, and took a seat. Her arms were blocking the title of the book that was on her lap. "What are you reading?"

Rogue's face beamed with delight. "To Sir, With Love. It's one of my favorites." She took a moment. I could tell from her eyes the subject was about to change. "I wasn't sure what time you'd be up so I thought it was best just to leave you a note. I have an update on something we discussed hours ago." Rogue paused briefly as she laced her fingers on top of the book. "He has agreed to meet with you."

My pace was slow. I was busy in my head trying to formulate what to say when I come face to face with an ex-friend that I hardly remember. He screwed up my hands and took six years of my life that I'll never get back. Anger was building up inside of me. Before I could rupture, I recalled what Rogue had told me—the blame can't all be placed on him. I stopped just before the opening. 'Screw it. I'm going to have to wing it.'

He was waiting for me at the far side of the room. His back was facing the window and his arms were folded across his chest. I stopped in the middle. We were about ten feet apart. At that moment I sensed something vaguely familiar. However, I was unable to dwell because shortly after I settled into my position I was greeted with, "I want to punch you, but I won't because your noggin can't handle it." His tone was sharp around the edges matched with a sapphire gaze as hard as stone.

Naturally, my defenses kicked in. "And whose fault is that?" I grunted.

"Don't," he spat, and in a split second, he was standing in front of me. I didn't flinch. He was a good head taller than me. One hand was clenched to his side and the other was an inch from my face—specifically, his index finger. "You've always been a smart-ass, but just . . . don't. It took me years to stop blaming myself." I heard what he said loud and clear; however, his eyes told a different story. After the statement, he withdrew his hand and took a step back—acceptable personal space requirements intact.

A ping of guilt tugged at me. Whereas I was unaware of everything while in a coma, he was living and dealing with it every second, every minute, and every hour of every day. It was difficult holding my tongue regarding his breath (besides the chill), but just like the rude gesture, I let it slide. I couldn't allow myself to be a jerk to him.

"Iceman," I whispered as it passed through my lips. It ascended from my subconscious without a vision. My hands tensed. The look on his face confirmed it belonged to him. My mind became wrapped in a twister of thoughts. Absently I took out the lighter and the next thing I knew I was no longer on my feet. Instead, my face was pinned to the floor. "What. The. Fuck!" I enunciated through clenched teeth, struggling with discomfort at the weight on my back. I felt him move as he reached for something. I couldn't see what it was; he had a good grip on my head.

"Oh, it's empty."

"Can you get off of me now?" Once he let go of my head, I saw curious faces peering from the doorway. As I was getting to my feet, I said, "I don't have my full strength back. Even that scrawny kid could keep me down." It had to be articulated. It was true. Plus, I probably had a reputation to uphold. Insulted, the kid's brows knitted together as he placed closed fists on his hips.

Iceman walked past me and closed the door.

I waited for him to turn around. "'Pyro' isn't just a nickname, is it?"

"No," he replied, "it's who you are."

I walked over to the window. "This theory has surfaced more than once and I laughed it off each time . . . I can control fire." I didn't form it into a question because it was clear as day. I spun around, facing him once again. "Is that why I'm not allowed a TV?"

"One of them."

Palm faced up, I moved my hand trying to start a flame. Unsuccessful, I tried rubbing my hands together. Still nothing. When I looked at Bobby I saw a hint of amusement in his eyes.

"You can't create it, only manipulate it," he revealed, after making me look like an idiot for a good five minutes or so. "Where did you get this?" He held the lighter by its length using his forefinger and thumb.

"In my hoodie while I was going through my things. Why?"

Iceman shrugged. "We were roommates. I put the box together. I should've checked more thoroughly."

I smirked. "You could've been twenty dollars richer too." I waited a moment or two before changing the subject. "Don't you think it might be beneficial for me to be able to manipulate fire to kick-start my memory?"

"I do, but that's not up to me. Right off the bat, a problem that I foresee is control."

"Shouldn't it be like riding a bike? You know . . . once you learn, you never forget." I reasoned.

"Perhaps, but when it comes to hurting others or yourself there's more to consider. It's not an easy decision." He paused. "Do you think you can handle it? By opening this door it could set off past experiences that you rather keep buried."

"I don't really have a choice." I grabbed at my chest and held a fistful of my shirt. "There's this constant void that's growing inside of me and I'm concerned what will happen if it should cave in." If I looked apprehensive, it was apt because I was as serious as a heart attack.