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They Call Me Pyro

Chapter 14

Manifesto Manic Matter

Mystique and I ascended the floating staircase in silence. The unknown kept my mind busy with eager curiosity peaked at the forefront. I caressed the Zippo's smooth metal cap with my thumb until we reached the final landing, tucking it away in the front pocket of my pants. This floor of the penthouse had a high thick metal wall hiding what lay behind it. There was a key card slot on the left and something hidden behind a case on the right. When Mystique inserted the card, the case opened and she punched in the long numeric code. I deduced that the cleaning staff weren't allowed here; strictly off-limits unless invited. Should I consider myself lucky or honored? Nah, I just meet the main requirement: X-Gene. How in the hell did she get this built? Did she kidnap and later pose as the head contractor? Those thoughts were abruptly interrupted because when I walked through the door, I couldn't believe my eyes. The door was awe-worthy but everything behind it was utterly impressive.

I opened my mouth to ask but she inadvertently cut me off with her back facing me as she said, "I call it Manifesto. It's a physical declaration of motives for change." She turned to face me and then tilted her head a fraction. "Essentially, it's my version of Xavier's Danger Room." She paused to study her fingernails for a beat, adding, "But technologically advanced and superior."

"Unequivocally," I replied automatically.

"You can wear what you have on," she told me. "No silly suits here."

My lips slightly quirked up in approval as I gave her a nod. Then I undid the laces to my boots, tugging them tighter. Rising to full height, I caught a glimpse of the touchpad Mystique had just used to open Manifesto. I strode inside Danger Room+ (don't tell her I called it that) without verbal permission. I didn't need it. We weren't here to merely gape. I take that back; she's here to gape at me. I cupped the pocket the Zippo was in to subtly acknowledge the journey, which was bitter, super angsty, and seemingly unattainable since adolescence as I glanced over my shoulder to see the door closing, containing me within.

Mystique's sultry, husky voice filled the open space, "The program will kick off easy and then gradually get more difficult. Focus and concentrate but feel free to play around a bit too. There is no better time than right now."

I nodded once and rubbed my hands together as if I need the warmup to jumpstart the power that flows through me. A countdown starts. Three. The voice is robotic but feminine. Two. I take a deep breath in and let it out. One.

My stance is casual as I wait for the obstacle or target to appear.

An orange and white tabby kitten padded toward me. Tilting my head to the side, I decided and mentally pictured the course of action I'd take.

Flame poured out of each finger from my right hand, encircling the simulated feline. When it froze in fear, that's when I allowed the fire to engulf it and the kitten disappeared out of view followed by an announcement. Threat defeated. To assess and test my control, I made sure to snuff out any lingering flames. All remnants dissipated simultaneously. It's not like I'll do that often but I want to see if something triggers the mania. Self-diagnosed, of course.

The next countdown revealed a black bear. It stood on its haunches and roared as soon as it saw me. Perhaps I offended it by my bored expression. I created a single fireball and threw it at the enemy. It made contact but it didn't seem to be effective. I gave Mystique a look over my shoulder as I suspected she was changing the rules. I'm aware there is no set of actual rules, but I knew when someone was fucking with me. The black bear charged, so I created a six-foot wall of fire between us to halt it. It stood and roared at me again and then I shoved the flames like a wave you'd see at the beach consuming a surfer that timed it incorrectly. Threat defeated. "If you wanted me to be more creative . . . you could've just said so," I told her matter-of-factly without turning to look at her as I called the flames to come back to me. They danced in my palm as small beams went up and down like a water fountain display.

No reply came, which is fine. It was rhetorical anyway.

Purposely tilting my head to the side, my neck cracked as the third opponent made its appearance. I groaned audibly and raised a brow but I couldn't help but smirk. I'd be facing off against a foe. He wore black leather with light blue piping to match his eyes. However, in a blink, I changed my mind. "I'd rather go toe to toe with the real thing because I know that's inevitable now that I'm with you. Can you change it?"

Immediately the figure formed and shifted into his better—far superior—half. I rolled my eyes but didn't offer a verbal opinion. She wasn't real. I didn't have to worry about anything irrevocable happening to her. But why did Mystique pick her? Was it purely random? I get the sense it's not. Did I mumble something during my sleep or when I was held in the medical bay at the mansion?

Rogue, the Danger Room+ version, cocked a hip, regarding me. It was enough to distract me and for a moment I forgot. Fortunately, she didn't take advantage of a mistake that could've cost me the utmost price in the real world. With my mouth inadvertently agape, I pressed my lips together and forced my gaze to look elsewhere. Then I swung my semi-outstretched arms bent at the elbow at a twenty-degree angle in front of me, facing my palms together but keeping them parted by a foot, willing flame between the unoccupied space. When my eyes met hers, I let the bowling ball-size flame loose. She simply raised her gloved hand and the fire hit an invisible wall. Now it was my turn to cock a body part—my head. This Rogue was upgraded. I swear she didn't move a muscle when I was forcefully pushed backward into Manifesto's real metal frame. My back took the brunt of the hit but I didn't fall. Hunched over, hugging my torso with my left arm, an audible groan escaped as I straightened. "Damn it. What did I do to you? You're not even the real thing," I muttered, rubbing the reachable affected areas. Closing the large gap between us without mundane walking, she floated only a few inches above the ground and stopped before me. She smiled as her feet touched the ground and then she pulled off her glove. Without further delay and ignoring the twinge in my back, I knocked her off her feet with a low leg sweep, emulating Mystique's move from the other day—a skill like that is learned; not attainable on the fly. As I created some distance, I mused internally, Huh, so I learned something useful from Cyclops. I'll never be a hand-to-hand combat type of mutant but it's imperative to know some defensive techniques to buy yourself extra time when every second counts in a fight with mutants. Before Rogue could stand or float again, I tried the same attack from earlier with the fireball while she was down and made a direct hit. Repeatedly, I threw more and more at her. My grin grew with each use of my gift. I felt ecstatic without the proverbial red tape that was always ingrained with seemingly endless lectures and short training sessions compared to my peers.

My body language oozed confidence as I strode to her fetal-positioned unmarred body, and in a blink, I let my power loose, dousing her with continuous flame. If Manifesto announced my victory, I didn't hear it. Fire spewed from me still, aiming at the same spot. Sweat blurred my vision but it didn't matter because I wasn't seeing until the black spots started, spread, and took over.

Jolting into a sitting position, I immediately relaxed, only to feel my heart start to thump out of my thoracic cavity a moment later with questions. Why am I in a bed? Wasn't I training? How did I get here? (Though, I knew the obvious answer to the latter.) It sucked not remembering; been there, done that. Noting from the comfort of the bed that the door was ajar and with all limbs untethered, which meant I was free to go where I pleased, lessened some panic. I reached into my pocket for the Zippo Mystique gave to me. It was like my own fidget toy before fidget spinners became popular. I leaned back until I felt the headboard behind me and then flicked the cap open, closed, open, closed, open, closed. My heartbeat reverted to its normal pace. I still knew my name, whereabouts, memories. I just wasn't able to account for only a few hours. Unsettling, still, but I wasn't starting from scratch again.

I heard someone rapping on the door. Mystique entered before I granted her verbal permission. She sat at the edge of the bed on the right side (my left), looking partially over her shoulder at me. "How are you feeling?" she asked.

Like the fidget spinner, I spun the lighter in my hand only to stop, flick it open, closed, and continue spinning, repeating the cycle absently. "Fine physically," I started, adding, "As far as I can tell."

She nodded.

Click, click. "I don't remember what happened," I told her. The Zippo remained in my hand but I stopped toying with it.

"That might be a side effect from the gas I used in Manifesto to knock you out. I didn't want to dispense it, but that was the safest option for both of us. What is the last thing you remember?"

"I was besting my artificial opponent. I had the advantage and just let loose."

All I heard from her was Hmm and then, "When did this start?"

Shit, shit, shit. Not thrilling to admit aloud, reluctantly, I answered, "When my power evolved." Of fucking course. I got what I've always wanted from the moment I hit puberty and learned (the hard way) that I could control fire, and yet I'm still damaged. "I wonder if a screw or two is loose from Iceman's fucking headbutt. He couldn't beat me with his gift but the cheapshot did the deed."

"Are you just mad you didn't cheat first?"

"Maybe," I joked. "No. I'm mad because I'm a mutant with gift-hindering flaws. I overcame one . . . just to crash headfirst into another."

"At least you look human." She sounded morose but extended her forefinger toward me so I wouldn't interrupt. "I'm over that so I'm not talking about myself. There are others that can't blend in at all, where the five-letter F word is all they know and start to believe. Furthermore, Cyclops doesn't have it easy. Nor did Rogue."

"Maybe all I need is a tune-up, so I'm better off than they are." Then I realized Mystique used past tense for Rogue. Being so caught up in my trauma drama, I never asked and it never came up—she wasn't wearing gloves, we made skin-to-skin contact without incident. I mouthed, Oh my God because I'm sure my face said it all regardless.

"One can only deduce she has learned to control it," Mystique said.

"Fuckin' A. She's still one of us!"

Her gaze darted to mine, but she didn't offer any verbal communication conveying the thoughts forming behind her eyes. Instead, she stood and told me to relax before exiting the room. The door latched closed.

I opened the Zippo and struck the wheel with my thumb to ignite the flame. This isn't what she meant by relaxing, probably, but they call me Pyro for a reason. And, for the record, I'm still in bed—my legs are stretched to their full length and my back is leaning on the headboard with a pillow in between. The flame is disrupted when I wave my index finger through it. It doesn't hurt like it would've before when I couldn't create it on my own. And once the flames were out of my control, I couldn't touch them. We are one, fire and I. Reborn aflame since the coma; I feel like a phoenix. But if I had to give up omega status to stay sane . . . could I? That should be easy to answer but it's not. For over a decade, this was the sole thing I yearned for and I don't want to part with it. Ever. I never got anything I wanted for birthdays or Christmases—if I got anything at all, which wasn't often—but I still told my parents, giving them plenty of time to buy me the desired gift that could be purchased. However, I stopped asking before I hit the age of ten knowing then that I'd end up disappointed just like all the other years prior.

Rather than looking down, I raised the Zippo, leveling it with my gaze as I eyed the flame intently, searching for wisdom like a crystal ball. My eyes twitched in tune with the fire's dance, but I snapped the lighter shut after a few minutes. The wisdom I was seeking would not be found there.

x - X - x - X - x

Nor was clarity found in the shower but a hygienic necessity nonetheless. Using the plush pale gray carpeting beneath my bare feet, I strode to the sink with a towel secured around my waist. My reflection stared back at me. My exterior appearance was unchanged—no horns sticking out of my head like a demon, no color alteration to my eyes or hair—however, you could tell I recently towel-dried my hair. As I suspected, my interior was faulty and couldn't be set aside. My head drooped. I closed my eyes and sighed, another setback. Moments later, simultaneously my eyes opened, and my head snapped up as I heard Mystique's voice come from an intercom I hadn't noticed prior, Get some rest, Pyro. Tomorrow we take out an enemy.

Confusion contorted my facial features. I'm a liability. How could I be of any help when it was lurking?