A/N: You might be ravenous after this chapter or at least hungry for a salad. Who am I kidding? Hungry for more TCMP!
They Call Me Pyro
Chapter 7
Fallout
After I spilled that personal information, I felt vulnerable, but I was getting desperate. Iceman's expression was solid. If he played poker . . . he'd be difficult to read.
Rubbing the back of my neck, I felt embarrassed to ask, but I wasn't going to call him that—though, it's probably a normal thing around here. "What's your real name? I know I should know it but you got me exceptionally well." I lightly tapped on my head—not that he needed a reminder but I was giving him a compliment!
He didn't hesitate and didn't seem to mind the gesture. "Bobby Drake," he said as he outstretched his arm. I took it, ignoring the tension in my hand. His hand wasn't cold like I thought it would be. "I had to stop you from hurting the people I care about."
I nodded in acknowledgment. He puts others before himself. Since that's not a bad thing . . . why do I have the urge to vomit? Perhaps we really are opposites. I snorted at myself. I wasn't a changed man . . . I was still confused.
Bobby was looking at me strangely. Then it hit me as to why. "Don't mind me," I apologized. "I'm still figuring things out."
"Did you come to a new conclusion?"
"I'm an asshole."
He didn't deny it. "I'll speak to the others about what we discussed. You'll be notified on how we want to proceed."
"Before I go—" I trailed off to choose my words. "Something has been bothering me literally and figuratively." I paused to meet his eyes. "Bobby, what exactly did you do to my hands?" He was about to speak, but I cut him off before he could utter a word. "I can pretty much guess, but I just need to know."
He folded his arms over his chest. "We were playing elemental tug-of-war for a while. Eventually, I got close enough to disable the source of which you extracted your power. They were strapped to your hands and I had no choice, but to freeze them. And then it was lights out for you."
Tilting my head, I said, "You headbutted me, didn't you?"
"Yes."
"Were you trying to kill me?" I asked.
"No," Bobby said with certainty and added, "But can you say the same?"
I winced internally. Cheap shot just like the headbutt. No longer able to meet his gaze, I turned to leave. "You know I can't remember," I told him quietly over my shoulder. I felt his eyes trying to burn through the back of my head. Even I knew that sounded lame, nevertheless, it was true. However, deep, deep down . . . I knew the truth.
"Oh, by the way, you've always been one . . ." He said to my back as I reached the door. I opened it and began to exit. All of the spectators from earlier had dispersed. "An asshole." I heard him say as I entered the hall and veered left.
I stuffed my hands into my hoodie's pockets and kept my head down. I had more to think about. The walk turned into a jog until I reached the stairs. I hauled ass to climb them, however, I was out of breath about halfway up. I shuffled over to hold onto the rail for support and used my other arm to cradle my stomach. My lungs burned for oxygen causing me to cough. I couldn't proceed until I caught my breath. In between everything else I have going on, I'd have to find time to get back into shape. If I ever need to run . . . I wouldn't get very far in this condition. As soon as I felt better, I continued to ascend.
Various scattered items decorated the once immaculate floor of my room—the fallout of not finding what you're looking for. I didn't have that many possessions. Why couldn't I find my notebook? Did I hide it and simply forget? I can't be senile too! I sighed as I flopped myself—back first—onto the bed, temporarily defeated. As soon as my back hit the mattress, I was granted with a piece of the past.
I writhed in pain in the snow. The agony in my head seemed to go on forever, but it was probably only a few minutes and then it stopped. I scrambled to my feet looking around for the source but saw nothing suspicious. Letting my guard down, I brushed off snow from my coat as best as I could and continued the determined unclear journey through the snowy wooded area. After wondering for a time, I was getting concerned I wouldn't be able to find my way back if that was my only option. Eventually, I heard a helicopter in my vicinity and followed the sound to a cliff. Standing about three feet from the edge, I watched the helicopter as it climbed in altitude.
Conquered no longer, I sat up, pushed to my feet, and went to the nightstand. Sliding open the drawer, I smiled when I saw what I'd been searching for. Initially, I just wanted the most recent notebook but grabbed all of them instead.
With the notebooks at my side, I strode on the pristine lawn—no weeds, nor dirt patches. Each blade of grass was a healthy shade of bright green. The light breeze—one of the simple perks we take for granted—was welcoming as I walked. I decided to park my butt on the bleachers, at the very top. No one was playing basketball so I had the whole area to myself, which was what I wanted. The breeze was stronger now that I was higher off the ground, but I remained seated. To control the paper from flapping, I tucked the cover underneath along with the pages I'd already filled. On a blank sheet, I added the newly found information along with the details of precedent memories. When I was done recording, I closed the notebook and dove into my youth. Right from the start—thanks to my teen angst—apparently it was in "my best interest" to keep a journal as resentfully stated on the first page. It was forced upon me, but yet, I stuck to it then and now. The sole reason: Anger. Instead of taking out my rage on others or myself I could write it down or draw. I flipped the page. A lot of the hatred was aimed at my parents. Every time I wrote 'Mom' or 'Dad' they were emphasized by drawing over the 3-letter words multiple times making them darker than the rest. I skimmed ahead. Pretty quickly I realized by calling them that I was giving them respect and they lost any they had with me; once they threw me onto the street like a piece of trash . . . I was no longer their son. In return, I referred to them by their first names. Titles are earned. If I could take anything away from them it would be 'Mother' and 'Father'.
'They are dead to me.' That was the last sentence I read before closing the notebook. Needing a break, I took a deep breath and exhaled audibly. It was a lot of information to absorb. My adolescent words were as sharp as blades, but they were apt—lies aren't told in journals, only brutal honest truths. Even though I eventually cleaned my hands of my parents, the anger never subsided. After being dormant for years, it was trying to erupt. I silently fought it off by clearing my mind and taking long deep breaths. I couldn't afford to lose my freedom. Not now. Not while just I'm starting to burn through the fog.
Absently, I started drawing. Jagged connected messy lines eventually met to form a huge speaking bubble. The inside was blank. I stared at it. What did I want to say, but couldn't—no, wouldn't—out loud?
Nearby chatter interrupted my thoughts. I turned my head to see a few students talking among themselves. They pushed each other in a teasing way as boys often do. There were three boys and one girl. When the tallest boy took a glance at me, he immediately nudged his buddy and pointed at me with his chin.
Indifferent, my attention went back to the empty bubble. However, that didn't last long as I heard the girl say, "Don't. Let's just go." I could see them in my peripheral. My gaze shifted slightly from my drawing to them at the bottom of the bleachers. I waited. After a few moments of silent staring, I closed the notebook and placed it on top of the others beside me. I wasn't going to start anything. If they had something to say . . . they could start whatever this interaction was going to be. I wanted to tell them to piss off, but held my tongue and waited.
"The rumors were true." The tall one said to his pals as he eyed me. "He should be dead or in jail. If it were up to me, he'd be dead."
I scoffed. A big statement for a little man. No. Insect. A wicked grin spread across my lips. I must've looked menacing because the girl promptly left her friends behind.
"Did I make a joke?" he asked his friends, ignoring my nodding. "You shouldn't be here. You don't deserve a second chance!" he spat. Both of his hands were in fists, a pale yellow glow emanating from them.
"You're probably right," I admitted. Before I stood up, his friends were trying to persuade him to leave me alone. It wasn't working, so I gave them a reason. I pulled out the lighter from my pocket and placed my thumb on the wheel. He was going to do something—besides the power coming from his hands, I could see the determination in his eyes—but since his friends were abandoning him, it didn't take long for him to follow. He should've listened to his buddies in the first place as I was just sitting here minding my own business. I don't know what would've happened if he tried to pick a fight just a few minutes prior before I could neutralize the anger that was about to boil over—I'm grateful we'll never know.
"Yeah, that's what I thought," I yelled, and their hasty pace turned into a run. "You don't fuck with Pyro, kiddies." I doubt they heard that part, but it felt good to say out loud. Once they were out of my sight, I sat down, cool as a cucumber. As soon as I went back to the unfinished drawing, I filled in the bubble with jet-black upper case letters. Each word was stacked on top of the other: UNSTABLE. DAMAGED. ASSHOLE. In a nutshell, those three words summed me up. The blame breakdown: parents, power, all me—I can't control how I'm wired and I won't apologize for it.
"PYRO!"
What now? I turned to see Scott marching with Ororo, Logan, and a brunette female that I haven't met, trailing behind. Hastily, I covered up the illustration with the other notebooks.
Eyes hidden behind ruby sunglasses, his facial expression was tight. I could already tell I was the guilty party. "You're unbelievable. Picking on minors has to be a new low, even for you." If we were inches apart, his finger would've been in my chest. Glaring at Scott at the top of my metal throne, he stood where the teens had been. The other three were positioned at the side.
Any other person's jaw would've dropped at the direct accusation. Mine didn't because there are two sides to a story—an outsider would say there are three sides to a story: theirs, mine, and the truth, but the truth is mine in this story. Sure, it was four sides to one, but at the moment I was still a cucumber. "I don't know what that tall punk told you," I said calmly, "but he was the instigator. Didn't his friends tell you that? They approached me."
"All of the boys said you were going to 'light them up'."
Liars! Having never said that cheesy line, I made a face to show my distaste. "I don't know their names so I'm just going to call the only one that matters 'Jake'. I had no idea what Jake could do, still don't. There was a glow coming from his hands, but I figured my ability"—I spread my arms to display supremacy—"and reputation would be more intimidating." I lowered my arms and reached into my pocket. "It was a bluff." A bluff, since I'm still powerless. I tossed Scott the lighter and waited a moment for him to inspect it. "That was the only way to defuse the situation without anyone getting hurt . . . besides Jake's ego." Before anyone could interject, I held up my finger to add, "Though, if anyone was going to get hurt, it would've been me. Jake wanted me dead." Why did that make me laugh? Because I couldn't believe those words passed my lips. To me, it sounded like something from a trashy novel. But for them to take me seriously, I had to look the part. With the smile absent, I continued, "I'm not being dramatic, he said it." I held up the three fingers that represented 'scout's honor'. Logan smirked at that. I definitely wasn't the Boy Scout type. After a drawn-out sigh and shrug, I said, "I assume his friends neglected to mention that as well."
All four of them were quiet as my words sunk in. The decision fell on Scott's shoulders.
"Think about it," I said slowly, my gaze and words aimed at shades. "I'm sure it's difficult trusting me out of all people, but my version of the story adds up. Doesn't it?" A rhetorical question filled with absolute confidence.
"For what it's worth, I don't smell bullshit," offered Logan.
Once more, I firmly added to my defense, "I have nothing to gain by picking on insignificant teenagers." Sure, it was entertaining playing chicken with Jake, but I damn well wasn't going to admit that to the judge and jury. "Can I have the lighter back now? And can I go back to being by myself?"
Why did Scott need an entourage if he wasn't going to discuss my fate with them?
"Give it back to him. No one was injured." Ororo told Scott since he appeared to be on the fence.
After that, he made up his mind and lobbed the item back to me. His attention veered to the brunette. "Kitty, please find Jordan. When you do, bring him to my office."
So the punk's name is Jordan. I wasn't too far off. Kitty nodded in acknowledgment and jogged straight thr—Oh, that's useful. If I blinked, I would've missed it—through the wall of the mansion. So that's why she was given that task. It shouldn't take her too long to locate him, which was satisfying. Soon he'd be . . . I don't know . . . cleaning all of the toilets with a toothbrush. Wait. Is that even a punishment these days? There has to be something worse. Thankfully it's not up to me to dish out.
Without another word, Scott strode away with Ororo by his side. Logan lingered. I sighed as I got to my feet, giving him a sidelong glance. He put a cigar in his mouth, holding it between his teeth. Lighter ready, he cupped his free hand over the cigar. His gaze shifted to me so quickly, I couldn't react so I had no choice but to hold mine. In retrospect, why not? It's like getting to witness a magic trick . . . you're going to look. Why hide your curiosity? I'm sure he expected no less from me. "You aren't going to do anything stupid, are you?" The cigar bobbed as he spoke. "If you do, you'll beg for Jordan to kill you instead of me. His way would be fast. That's not my style."
"How about lighting up somewhere that I'm not," I suggested rationally as I made my way down to the first bleacher.
He shrugged. "I have my reasons."
I didn't answer right away . . . wasn't going to make it that easy. "I'll behave," I promised after a few heartbeats. Making Logan wait too long didn't seem like a smart idea.
Immediately as the flame appeared, I felt something I hadn't experienced before. The pull was intoxicating. My eyelids shut as if I had no control. I held onto the metal seat to keep me grounded. This new warmth inside of me was like a drug—numbing, but fully aware. In what seemed like only seconds, the high vanished and I was left with a tease. My brows knitted together as I shot a hard glare at my tormentor. "What I'm feeling right now might be worse than death," I complained.
Logan replied ruefully, "I didn't think you'd forget about your one true love." He pocketed the lighter and put the unlit cigar between his teeth.
"Are you trying to make me blush?" I countered, resisting the urge to give him the finger. Then suddenly an unrelated question popped into my head and I asked it without hesitation, "Do you have a CD player?"