Pyrokinetic Manipulator - Chapter one
Author: Sj-snugglebug
Title: Pyrokinetic Manipulator
Genre: General/Romance
Rating: PG-13 (At the most, I hope)
Pairings: Not really any in this chapter, but you could go ‘Pyro/Iceman - John/Bobby’ at the end if you really wanted to.
Warnings: I’m not sure ‘slash’ would be a warning here. (=
Disclaimer: Not mine; never was, never will be. )=
Summary: Before he was Pyro, he was John; and before he was John, he was St. John. John was strong, but Pyro was stronger. John would fight, but Pyro would die trying; but John had Bobby, and Pyro didn’t.
~
Chapter: One
Chapter title: Yesteryear
Chapter Summary: Before he was John, he was St. John. Before he was at the Academy, he had a home.
~
Authors note: Hi! I'm new to this fandom. This is my first X-men fic ever actually. Actually, to be honest, I'm brand new to Livejournal. I've been lurking around this community for the past few days, and decided to add my contribution. I don't even have a proper diary! So, If I screw anything up, coding, hiding stuff, bear with me. )= I spend most of my time posting other storires (Star wars, Harry Potter, etc) in FF.net. So, feedback is extremely welcome. If you dont' like it, tell me what you don't like. If you like none of it and I have no potential in X-men whatsoever, you're welcome to tell me to bugger off and leave your poor fandom alone. If you like it, cookies for EVERYONE! =D
So, this is the product of procrastiation for my end-of-year exams. One of which is tomorrow, actually. It hasn't been beta'd, so mistakes will quite probably be obvious. If I ever get the time, I'll add the next chapter. THANKS! =D
YESTERYEAR (CHAPTER ONE)
~
St. John sat on his father’s knee, grinning whilst his father spoke to him of his whore aunt and her crazy son with earrings at tattoos and all of those unnatural bodily ornaments. His father shook his head when his aunt spoke of mystical beings and witches and Wicca. He said she’d never be invited to such dinner parties again, and he only tolerates her because ‘your mother associates herself with such low-life’s’. St. John nodded in agreement, pretending to understand even though he was only four; but St. John was smart, like his father, and indulged in such conversation.
“It is an insult to our intelligence, isn’t it son?” His father said. St. John nodded solemnly, and his father ruffled his hair with a smile.
“Intelligence, my son, is what separates us men from mammals. That is why I would not classify your cousin over there as intelligent. That nail in his chin is not natural, is it?”
St. John laughed; laughed because giggling was for girls and he wasn’t a girl, not like his cousin Michael who was four and giggled in such a manner. He played with the dog-tags in his hand. His father gave them to him. ‘An army man just like me, now.’ He had said.
~
St. John stood in front of the smooth polished dinner table, tugging irritably at the collar of his suit. The table was set with a set of candle-holders in the middle; the flames flickered tauntingly, teasingly - his father would use the world ‘whore’. St. John analysed the flame with caution, and then reached over and pushed his finger through it. The flame brushed against his finger, tickling gently. He grinned, and the flame grew and shrunk and grew again. He’d seen the older kids do this, swiping their finger through the flame and grinning because they weren’t burnt. He twisted his finger, around and around and around, and he wasn’t burnt. A hand grabbed his shoulder and gripped.
St. John looked up in shock at the high face of his father. They stared at each other. They stared, and stared, and stared until his father finally relented and said in a harsh voice, ‘St. John, remove your finger from the fire.’
He pulled his finger out.
“You’re ten-years-old, St. John. You’re not a child anymore; I would have hoped you knew better than to play with fire. Never let me catch you doing that ever again, understand?”
St. John nodded vigorously, and wondered what that meant. He wasn’t allowed to do that, or he was allowed to so long as he didn’t get caught.
“I have very important guests coming over tonight; so that means none of your nonsense, none of your crazy talking, and you must be on your best behaviour. Understand?”
St. John nodded again; those stupid guests, and the stupid army people, and the stupid people in general. He hated people.
“Now, go upstairs, your mother wants to fix your suit.”
St. John turned around and headed for the stairs. He saw his sister spinning around and around in the lounge, her skirt twirling and billowing around her. He didn’t’ hate his sister; no, she didn’t bother him, or tell him what to do. She kept to herself in all her silliness and childishness. She left him alone and played with her toys and dolls like normal four-year-olds. No, he didn’t hate his sister, he liked her. She wasn’t one of those people. He wished he was four.
St. John turned around again to give his father one last glance, and noticed the candle-holders, flickering with their flames - teasing him, taunting him. St. John gave it a look, and the flame jumped from the wick and set the pristine white cloth alight with dancing flames. He gave his father a smile; one of those distant daunting smiles, and turned back to the stairs.
~
St. John stood in the middle of the lounge, shadows of fire casting light through the hall with red and orange and black dancing across the walls. He looked down at the shark lighter cradled in the palm of his hand, then slipped it into the pocket of the backpack on his shoulders. He heard the yells and the curses of his father from up the stairs, and the shrill ringing of the alarm on the ceiling.
He adjusted his bag on his shoulders which rested against the bruises and stripes of raw pink through the thin soft fabric of his t-shirt. He took a deep breath and watched as the flames crept around the corner, through the door way and climbed the delicate lace curtains. The fire leapt and crackled and danced around him, licking up his arm in its homely warm comforting familiarity. St John closed his eyes and looked up to the ceiling, listening to the thundering footsteps of his parents cross above him. The exits were blocked, he knew, as he had only just managed to escape himself. He squeezed his eyes shut and focused on the flames licking across his skin, teasingly and tauntingly, making his breath quicken. He shivered and inhaled sharply.
St. John could hear the screams of his name from above him, and the smash of glass. ‘There’s no way out from up there,’ he thought to himself. He pondered whether to save them; he didn’t have much control over his abilities yet, and weighed the risk of getting burnt himself. The fire on his skin crawled, and moved, and crept up and down his bare arms. He could feel the heat, causing his thin t-shirt to cling to his gaunt small frame.
The smoke from the fire was beginning to asphyxiate him; he tipped his head back up to the ceiling and stood rooted to the spot, unsure of which way to turn. He shut his eyes again when he hear the shill scream of a child. He looked down.
His sister, his five-year-old sister, but what was she doing here? She was supposed to be at a friends how; one of their childish ‘dinner parties’ or something like that. This wasn’t right, she wasn’t supposed to die. It was his imagination, the hold of the fire playing tricks on his mind; controlling him. He couldn’t remember. He couldn’t remember much anymore.
He shuddered as the fire grew hotter on his bare skin; the smell of singed hair, wood, carpet and brutally burnt flesh filling his senses. John felt the fire begin to eat away at his skin, little by little, not burning - just biting away, abandoning. He threw his head back and screamed.
~
John flicked the lighter in his hand with a click and a fwoosh and a click. He peered around the corner of the tree, waiting for the boys to pass again. They did, and John played with the small lick of flame in the palm of his hand. He peered around the corner again, hearing them talk softly about ‘that kid’ and ‘where the hell the freaky kid was’. He grinned, keeping the tiny flame alight in the palm of his hand; he pocketed his lighter and petted the money in his jacket-pocket fondly. John grinned in success; and they passed around the corner. He’d taken theft to a whole new level, and at eleven.
~
John kneeled in front of the man; the man sat on the couch of his flat. John didn’t say anything, and the man didn’t say anything in return. The man reached down and touched his face. John tolerated it, but if he tried anything else he had his trusty lighter handy.
“How old are you, kid?” The man asked, raising a single groomed eyebrow. John grinned slyly and chuckled.
‘Twelve.’ He thought to himself, but replied “How old do you want me to be?”
The man grinned and leaned back, ‘Pervert’. John reached forwards and slowly undid the button and zip on his pants. ‘A little young for this, aren’t you?’ he pondered to himself. But he couldn’t refuse fifty-dollars. He pulled his pants open and leaned forwards.
~
John hid in the door-way of the next building, smelling the fumes of burning wood and brick and…and something else indescribable. There were screams, screams so familiar they sent shivers down his back. John crouched in the corner and rocked back and forth, hands and legs shaking as he whispered words over and over again.
“It’s alright.” A gentle female voice whispered to him. John clung to his bag and tried to pull away, but constricted in the corner of a doorway, it was impossible. “It’s alright.”
“It wasn’t me! I swear I didn’t do that.” John cried out, and pulled away again. He looked up at the silverly hair and kind face of the woman before him. He frowned at her. “Who are you?” The teenager retorted. “I don’t have any money on me, you can’t steal anything.”
The woman smiled and laid a hand on his shoulder.
“I’m not here to steal anything.” She said. “I’m Ororo Munroe. You can call me Storm. We’re here to help you.” Storm motioned to the red-head behind her. “We’re mutants just like you.”
John frowned cautiously and gripped his bag harder. “Okay, so maybe that was my handiwork.” He said slowly.
Storm smiled. “I’m sure you didn’t mean it, but we have to leave quickly so you can tell me what happened on the way.”
“Go where? I’m not going with you. I have things to do, I have to leave.” He snapped, and stood up, swinging his backpack over his shoulder.
“Go where? What’s your name?”
John didn’t reply, and pushed through the two women to leave.
“We’re from a school. We can help you. The school is a safe haven for mutants. No running, no stealing, we’ll help you handle your powers. We want to help you.” Storm said quickly. John stopped, and turned around.
“I don’t have any money.” He said. It wasn’t the complete truth. He had a bit. One hundred stashed somewhere in his backpack, but she didn’t’ need to know that.
“We don’t want any money, we just want to help.”
John considered this.
“How old are you? What’s your name?” she asked.
“Uh, I’m thirteen. I’m John. I didn’t kill anyone, I swear. There was no-one in that building.” He paused. “Okay, maybe Trick was in there, but he was an arsehole anyway. He puked all over my bed.” John paused again, “and stole my stash.” He didn’t elaborate on that, and the women didn’t ask; but he knew they knew what he meant.
~
There was a knock on the door. It opened, and Storm stood there with a small blue-eyed boy next to her. The boy had a suit-case beside him; one of those fancy ones that were black and sturdy and had silver writing on it. It also had a tag, but John didn’t read it; he wasn’t all that interested in anything but the book open in front of him. If there was any advantage to living a big mansion, it was the library that came with it and not those annoying mutants that thought they were everything.
“Hello, John. This is Bobby. He’s your new room-mate.” Storm said, gently nudging the boy forwards. John looked around. The boy was small, like he was; but looked shy, and hesitant, and wary of the situation. John turned back to his book without replying.
“Don’t take it personally,” Storm whispered. “He doesn’t talk much.”
“Why doesn’t he have room-mates?” The boy, Bobby, whispered back. John could tell he was worried; he could also tell the boy thought he was deaf enough to not hear. Storm laughed.
“People are worried about his mutation.” She replied, and the boy looked afraid.
“Does it hurt people?” He asked.
“All mutations have the potential to hurt people, Bobby, even yours.”
“But that’s why I’m here, right?” Bobby whispered. “So you’ll teach me how to not turn by brother into an ice-statue.”
“Exactly,” Storm laughed. She ushered him to his bed. “Don’t worry, I have a feeling you’ll get along fine. He’s a little quiet, but he’s definitely not shy. You’ll get along fine. After all, what counteracts fire better than ice, right?”
John watched them, and Bobby still looked unsure about the situation.
Storm whispered, “At least I hope you do, he’s been through five room-mates.”
Bobby’s eyes widened. “Oh my god, what do you mean? He killed them?”
Storm started to laugh, and John sighed in defeat. This was great, just who he wanted to be stuck with.
“So, you’re a fire mutant.” Bobby said, looking over to John on his bed. John didn’t reply, and turned the page.
“So, did your parents send you here too?”
There was still no reply, and John began to flick his lighter.
“My parents did, but they think it’s some sort of prep school or something. They don’t know I’m a mutant.”
Click - Fwoosh - Click - Fwoosh.
“You may want to get more quilts though; I tend to freeze the bedroom when I’m asleep at night. I can’t control it much.”
Turn - Click - Fwoosh - Click - …
Bobby laughed. “Good thing they never noticed though, it’ll be handy to have you here. You can just defreeze everything!”
John frowned, wondering why ‘the stupid kid’ wouldn’t shut up.
“Funny how they put us together, our powers are complete opposites, but I guess Storm’s right. We would counteract well.”
Click - Fwoosh - Click - Turn…
John‘s hand stopped half way, and he had this sudden feeling of coldness and…he turned towards Bobby at the other side of the room. Bobby was sitting on his bed glaring coldly at him.
“I’m trying to talk here, you know.” Bobby snapped. “You think you could be polite enough to listen.”
John turned back to his hand which was encased in ice. He considered it for a moment, then thought to himself ‘Pity he got my Zippo hand.’ He turned back to Bobby and laughed momentarily.
Bobby grinned back warily, the John’s grin slipped off his face.
“I think I’m going to like you Ice-boy.” He chuckled, then “But do that again and you’ll wake up in flames.”
~
And that's it for chapter one. A small introduction into Pyro's past.
Title: Pyrokinetic Manipulator
Genre: General/Romance
Rating: PG-13 (At the most, I hope)
Pairings: Not really any in this chapter, but you could go ‘Pyro/Iceman - John/Bobby’ at the end if you really wanted to.
Warnings: I’m not sure ‘slash’ would be a warning here. (=
Disclaimer: Not mine; never was, never will be. )=
Summary: Before he was Pyro, he was John; and before he was John, he was St. John. John was strong, but Pyro was stronger. John would fight, but Pyro would die trying; but John had Bobby, and Pyro didn’t.
~
Chapter: One
Chapter title: Yesteryear
Chapter Summary: Before he was John, he was St. John. Before he was at the Academy, he had a home.
~
Authors note: Hi! I'm new to this fandom. This is my first X-men fic ever actually. Actually, to be honest, I'm brand new to Livejournal. I've been lurking around this community for the past few days, and decided to add my contribution. I don't even have a proper diary! So, If I screw anything up, coding, hiding stuff, bear with me. )= I spend most of my time posting other storires (Star wars, Harry Potter, etc) in FF.net. So, feedback is extremely welcome. If you dont' like it, tell me what you don't like. If you like none of it and I have no potential in X-men whatsoever, you're welcome to tell me to bugger off and leave your poor fandom alone. If you like it, cookies for EVERYONE! =D
So, this is the product of procrastiation for my end-of-year exams. One of which is tomorrow, actually. It hasn't been beta'd, so mistakes will quite probably be obvious. If I ever get the time, I'll add the next chapter. THANKS! =D
YESTERYEAR (CHAPTER ONE)
~
St. John sat on his father’s knee, grinning whilst his father spoke to him of his whore aunt and her crazy son with earrings at tattoos and all of those unnatural bodily ornaments. His father shook his head when his aunt spoke of mystical beings and witches and Wicca. He said she’d never be invited to such dinner parties again, and he only tolerates her because ‘your mother associates herself with such low-life’s’. St. John nodded in agreement, pretending to understand even though he was only four; but St. John was smart, like his father, and indulged in such conversation.
“It is an insult to our intelligence, isn’t it son?” His father said. St. John nodded solemnly, and his father ruffled his hair with a smile.
“Intelligence, my son, is what separates us men from mammals. That is why I would not classify your cousin over there as intelligent. That nail in his chin is not natural, is it?”
St. John laughed; laughed because giggling was for girls and he wasn’t a girl, not like his cousin Michael who was four and giggled in such a manner. He played with the dog-tags in his hand. His father gave them to him. ‘An army man just like me, now.’ He had said.
~
St. John stood in front of the smooth polished dinner table, tugging irritably at the collar of his suit. The table was set with a set of candle-holders in the middle; the flames flickered tauntingly, teasingly - his father would use the world ‘whore’. St. John analysed the flame with caution, and then reached over and pushed his finger through it. The flame brushed against his finger, tickling gently. He grinned, and the flame grew and shrunk and grew again. He’d seen the older kids do this, swiping their finger through the flame and grinning because they weren’t burnt. He twisted his finger, around and around and around, and he wasn’t burnt. A hand grabbed his shoulder and gripped.
St. John looked up in shock at the high face of his father. They stared at each other. They stared, and stared, and stared until his father finally relented and said in a harsh voice, ‘St. John, remove your finger from the fire.’
He pulled his finger out.
“You’re ten-years-old, St. John. You’re not a child anymore; I would have hoped you knew better than to play with fire. Never let me catch you doing that ever again, understand?”
St. John nodded vigorously, and wondered what that meant. He wasn’t allowed to do that, or he was allowed to so long as he didn’t get caught.
“I have very important guests coming over tonight; so that means none of your nonsense, none of your crazy talking, and you must be on your best behaviour. Understand?”
St. John nodded again; those stupid guests, and the stupid army people, and the stupid people in general. He hated people.
“Now, go upstairs, your mother wants to fix your suit.”
St. John turned around and headed for the stairs. He saw his sister spinning around and around in the lounge, her skirt twirling and billowing around her. He didn’t’ hate his sister; no, she didn’t bother him, or tell him what to do. She kept to herself in all her silliness and childishness. She left him alone and played with her toys and dolls like normal four-year-olds. No, he didn’t hate his sister, he liked her. She wasn’t one of those people. He wished he was four.
St. John turned around again to give his father one last glance, and noticed the candle-holders, flickering with their flames - teasing him, taunting him. St. John gave it a look, and the flame jumped from the wick and set the pristine white cloth alight with dancing flames. He gave his father a smile; one of those distant daunting smiles, and turned back to the stairs.
~
St. John stood in the middle of the lounge, shadows of fire casting light through the hall with red and orange and black dancing across the walls. He looked down at the shark lighter cradled in the palm of his hand, then slipped it into the pocket of the backpack on his shoulders. He heard the yells and the curses of his father from up the stairs, and the shrill ringing of the alarm on the ceiling.
He adjusted his bag on his shoulders which rested against the bruises and stripes of raw pink through the thin soft fabric of his t-shirt. He took a deep breath and watched as the flames crept around the corner, through the door way and climbed the delicate lace curtains. The fire leapt and crackled and danced around him, licking up his arm in its homely warm comforting familiarity. St John closed his eyes and looked up to the ceiling, listening to the thundering footsteps of his parents cross above him. The exits were blocked, he knew, as he had only just managed to escape himself. He squeezed his eyes shut and focused on the flames licking across his skin, teasingly and tauntingly, making his breath quicken. He shivered and inhaled sharply.
St. John could hear the screams of his name from above him, and the smash of glass. ‘There’s no way out from up there,’ he thought to himself. He pondered whether to save them; he didn’t have much control over his abilities yet, and weighed the risk of getting burnt himself. The fire on his skin crawled, and moved, and crept up and down his bare arms. He could feel the heat, causing his thin t-shirt to cling to his gaunt small frame.
The smoke from the fire was beginning to asphyxiate him; he tipped his head back up to the ceiling and stood rooted to the spot, unsure of which way to turn. He shut his eyes again when he hear the shill scream of a child. He looked down.
His sister, his five-year-old sister, but what was she doing here? She was supposed to be at a friends how; one of their childish ‘dinner parties’ or something like that. This wasn’t right, she wasn’t supposed to die. It was his imagination, the hold of the fire playing tricks on his mind; controlling him. He couldn’t remember. He couldn’t remember much anymore.
He shuddered as the fire grew hotter on his bare skin; the smell of singed hair, wood, carpet and brutally burnt flesh filling his senses. John felt the fire begin to eat away at his skin, little by little, not burning - just biting away, abandoning. He threw his head back and screamed.
~
John flicked the lighter in his hand with a click and a fwoosh and a click. He peered around the corner of the tree, waiting for the boys to pass again. They did, and John played with the small lick of flame in the palm of his hand. He peered around the corner again, hearing them talk softly about ‘that kid’ and ‘where the hell the freaky kid was’. He grinned, keeping the tiny flame alight in the palm of his hand; he pocketed his lighter and petted the money in his jacket-pocket fondly. John grinned in success; and they passed around the corner. He’d taken theft to a whole new level, and at eleven.
~
John kneeled in front of the man; the man sat on the couch of his flat. John didn’t say anything, and the man didn’t say anything in return. The man reached down and touched his face. John tolerated it, but if he tried anything else he had his trusty lighter handy.
“How old are you, kid?” The man asked, raising a single groomed eyebrow. John grinned slyly and chuckled.
‘Twelve.’ He thought to himself, but replied “How old do you want me to be?”
The man grinned and leaned back, ‘Pervert’. John reached forwards and slowly undid the button and zip on his pants. ‘A little young for this, aren’t you?’ he pondered to himself. But he couldn’t refuse fifty-dollars. He pulled his pants open and leaned forwards.
~
John hid in the door-way of the next building, smelling the fumes of burning wood and brick and…and something else indescribable. There were screams, screams so familiar they sent shivers down his back. John crouched in the corner and rocked back and forth, hands and legs shaking as he whispered words over and over again.
“It’s alright.” A gentle female voice whispered to him. John clung to his bag and tried to pull away, but constricted in the corner of a doorway, it was impossible. “It’s alright.”
“It wasn’t me! I swear I didn’t do that.” John cried out, and pulled away again. He looked up at the silverly hair and kind face of the woman before him. He frowned at her. “Who are you?” The teenager retorted. “I don’t have any money on me, you can’t steal anything.”
The woman smiled and laid a hand on his shoulder.
“I’m not here to steal anything.” She said. “I’m Ororo Munroe. You can call me Storm. We’re here to help you.” Storm motioned to the red-head behind her. “We’re mutants just like you.”
John frowned cautiously and gripped his bag harder. “Okay, so maybe that was my handiwork.” He said slowly.
Storm smiled. “I’m sure you didn’t mean it, but we have to leave quickly so you can tell me what happened on the way.”
“Go where? I’m not going with you. I have things to do, I have to leave.” He snapped, and stood up, swinging his backpack over his shoulder.
“Go where? What’s your name?”
John didn’t reply, and pushed through the two women to leave.
“We’re from a school. We can help you. The school is a safe haven for mutants. No running, no stealing, we’ll help you handle your powers. We want to help you.” Storm said quickly. John stopped, and turned around.
“I don’t have any money.” He said. It wasn’t the complete truth. He had a bit. One hundred stashed somewhere in his backpack, but she didn’t’ need to know that.
“We don’t want any money, we just want to help.”
John considered this.
“How old are you? What’s your name?” she asked.
“Uh, I’m thirteen. I’m John. I didn’t kill anyone, I swear. There was no-one in that building.” He paused. “Okay, maybe Trick was in there, but he was an arsehole anyway. He puked all over my bed.” John paused again, “and stole my stash.” He didn’t elaborate on that, and the women didn’t ask; but he knew they knew what he meant.
~
There was a knock on the door. It opened, and Storm stood there with a small blue-eyed boy next to her. The boy had a suit-case beside him; one of those fancy ones that were black and sturdy and had silver writing on it. It also had a tag, but John didn’t read it; he wasn’t all that interested in anything but the book open in front of him. If there was any advantage to living a big mansion, it was the library that came with it and not those annoying mutants that thought they were everything.
“Hello, John. This is Bobby. He’s your new room-mate.” Storm said, gently nudging the boy forwards. John looked around. The boy was small, like he was; but looked shy, and hesitant, and wary of the situation. John turned back to his book without replying.
“Don’t take it personally,” Storm whispered. “He doesn’t talk much.”
“Why doesn’t he have room-mates?” The boy, Bobby, whispered back. John could tell he was worried; he could also tell the boy thought he was deaf enough to not hear. Storm laughed.
“People are worried about his mutation.” She replied, and the boy looked afraid.
“Does it hurt people?” He asked.
“All mutations have the potential to hurt people, Bobby, even yours.”
“But that’s why I’m here, right?” Bobby whispered. “So you’ll teach me how to not turn by brother into an ice-statue.”
“Exactly,” Storm laughed. She ushered him to his bed. “Don’t worry, I have a feeling you’ll get along fine. He’s a little quiet, but he’s definitely not shy. You’ll get along fine. After all, what counteracts fire better than ice, right?”
John watched them, and Bobby still looked unsure about the situation.
Storm whispered, “At least I hope you do, he’s been through five room-mates.”
Bobby’s eyes widened. “Oh my god, what do you mean? He killed them?”
Storm started to laugh, and John sighed in defeat. This was great, just who he wanted to be stuck with.
“So, you’re a fire mutant.” Bobby said, looking over to John on his bed. John didn’t reply, and turned the page.
“So, did your parents send you here too?”
There was still no reply, and John began to flick his lighter.
“My parents did, but they think it’s some sort of prep school or something. They don’t know I’m a mutant.”
Click - Fwoosh - Click - Fwoosh.
“You may want to get more quilts though; I tend to freeze the bedroom when I’m asleep at night. I can’t control it much.”
Turn - Click - Fwoosh - Click - …
Bobby laughed. “Good thing they never noticed though, it’ll be handy to have you here. You can just defreeze everything!”
John frowned, wondering why ‘the stupid kid’ wouldn’t shut up.
“Funny how they put us together, our powers are complete opposites, but I guess Storm’s right. We would counteract well.”
Click - Fwoosh - Click - Turn…
John‘s hand stopped half way, and he had this sudden feeling of coldness and…he turned towards Bobby at the other side of the room. Bobby was sitting on his bed glaring coldly at him.
“I’m trying to talk here, you know.” Bobby snapped. “You think you could be polite enough to listen.”
John turned back to his hand which was encased in ice. He considered it for a moment, then thought to himself ‘Pity he got my Zippo hand.’ He turned back to Bobby and laughed momentarily.
Bobby grinned back warily, the John’s grin slipped off his face.
“I think I’m going to like you Ice-boy.” He chuckled, then “But do that again and you’ll wake up in flames.”
~
And that's it for chapter one. A small introduction into Pyro's past.