Post by Pyro on Jun 29, 2006 16:30:44 GMT -5
Duly dismissed by the Juggernaut and Jane, who at the same time sounded suspiciously like his long-estranged parents, John slouched off to the ploughed field that Giacomo had mentioned in a brief conversation might be appropriate for him to 'play with your fire'.
Play.
As if what he did with flames was play.
That was the trouble with all these people. They didn't UNDERSTAND what he felt when he drew on his powers. He didn't just hurl fireballs. He FELT the flame. It became a part of him. He channelled all his anger, all his inate sense of violence into each fiery projectile - and there was plent of that to go around.
But the time back in Liverpool when he'd created that fiery tendril that had snatched the policeman's gun from him had felt totally different. Something else was channelled into the fire that John had never realised he possessed.
Creativity.
His powers had manifested late, around sixteen. Although he'd had a definite affinity for pyromania before then, he hadn't really connected with fire until he was older. In order to get a handle on what were powers going out of control, he had contacted Xavier's Institute. The training he'd received had helped him to rein in his ability - right up to the day at Bobby Drake's place in Boston when the rage and terror of the situation had got the better of him.
Barely four years of using his ability. In that time, all he had really achieved was the art of destruction. But he had sensed, two days ago, in a rainy shopping centre in England, that he could accomplish so much more.
He flipped open his Zippo. He still hadn't put his hand-attached igniter back on yet, more out of respect for his host than anything else. Scooping the flame out of the lighter, he rolled it in his hands thoughtfully for a while before loosing it as his customary stream of flame. It was an easy thing to halt its journey until he had a horizontal pillar of flame burning across the field.
Start simple, Pyro, he thought to himself. Careful, now, you can do this.
He felt the familiar tingle of his connection with the glut of flame in front of him and briefly closed his eyes, reaching out to it with his whole being. He opened them again and surveyed his fiery creation.
Horizontal was wrong. This pillar should stretch up to the sky.
Rather self-consciously, he stretched out a hand and raised it elegantly, rather like Yoda lifting Luke's X-Wing from the swamps of Dagobah.
He could actually feel the fire resist, like it had a say in the matter.
"No," he said out loud. "I want you to change, and you're going to."
God, it was resisting so hard, it was like trying to lift a tonne weight. A film of sweat broke out on his forehead and he lowered his hand again.
The column of flame hadn't moved.
"FUCKING hell," he said in fury and clenched his fists together. "Go UP!" He thrust his clenched fists in an upward direction and was sent flying backwards by the backdraft of the column as it briefly retracted, then shot vertically upwards.
He landed with the sort of bump that distracted him enough to cause the flame to flare back down again. But they would certainly have seen that from the house.
Laughing somewhat maniacally, John got back up to his feet again, his fists still clenched.
"Right, you bastard," he said, grimly.
Reaching out with the memory of how it had felt creating a lone tendril, he tried it again and, much to his sheer delight, a whip-like tendril of flame reared from the column and snaked towards him. He reached out his other hand to it and it came to him gladly, wrapping itself around his arm.
"Holy shit," John said, eloquently. "This is serious stuff."
He played with the column of flame for a while, causing assorted tendrils to shoot from it and pick up rocks - which was a semi-success. Sometimes he could get the flame to solidify long enough to pick up the objects, at other times it failed dismally. On one occasion a rock dropped on his head.
"Enough," he murmured, feeling a headache start at the back of his brain, a frequent side effect of spending too long using his abilities. "Enough, now."
He clamped his hands shut, which normally cut off fire instantly, but it flared brighter for the briefest of moments before vanishing.
"Nice," he complimented himself and turned to walk back to the house, totally unaware of the pilot-light sized flame that followed him like a puppy.
Play.
As if what he did with flames was play.
That was the trouble with all these people. They didn't UNDERSTAND what he felt when he drew on his powers. He didn't just hurl fireballs. He FELT the flame. It became a part of him. He channelled all his anger, all his inate sense of violence into each fiery projectile - and there was plent of that to go around.
But the time back in Liverpool when he'd created that fiery tendril that had snatched the policeman's gun from him had felt totally different. Something else was channelled into the fire that John had never realised he possessed.
Creativity.
His powers had manifested late, around sixteen. Although he'd had a definite affinity for pyromania before then, he hadn't really connected with fire until he was older. In order to get a handle on what were powers going out of control, he had contacted Xavier's Institute. The training he'd received had helped him to rein in his ability - right up to the day at Bobby Drake's place in Boston when the rage and terror of the situation had got the better of him.
Barely four years of using his ability. In that time, all he had really achieved was the art of destruction. But he had sensed, two days ago, in a rainy shopping centre in England, that he could accomplish so much more.
He flipped open his Zippo. He still hadn't put his hand-attached igniter back on yet, more out of respect for his host than anything else. Scooping the flame out of the lighter, he rolled it in his hands thoughtfully for a while before loosing it as his customary stream of flame. It was an easy thing to halt its journey until he had a horizontal pillar of flame burning across the field.
Start simple, Pyro, he thought to himself. Careful, now, you can do this.
He felt the familiar tingle of his connection with the glut of flame in front of him and briefly closed his eyes, reaching out to it with his whole being. He opened them again and surveyed his fiery creation.
Horizontal was wrong. This pillar should stretch up to the sky.
Rather self-consciously, he stretched out a hand and raised it elegantly, rather like Yoda lifting Luke's X-Wing from the swamps of Dagobah.
He could actually feel the fire resist, like it had a say in the matter.
"No," he said out loud. "I want you to change, and you're going to."
God, it was resisting so hard, it was like trying to lift a tonne weight. A film of sweat broke out on his forehead and he lowered his hand again.
The column of flame hadn't moved.
"FUCKING hell," he said in fury and clenched his fists together. "Go UP!" He thrust his clenched fists in an upward direction and was sent flying backwards by the backdraft of the column as it briefly retracted, then shot vertically upwards.
He landed with the sort of bump that distracted him enough to cause the flame to flare back down again. But they would certainly have seen that from the house.
Laughing somewhat maniacally, John got back up to his feet again, his fists still clenched.
"Right, you bastard," he said, grimly.
Reaching out with the memory of how it had felt creating a lone tendril, he tried it again and, much to his sheer delight, a whip-like tendril of flame reared from the column and snaked towards him. He reached out his other hand to it and it came to him gladly, wrapping itself around his arm.
"Holy shit," John said, eloquently. "This is serious stuff."
He played with the column of flame for a while, causing assorted tendrils to shoot from it and pick up rocks - which was a semi-success. Sometimes he could get the flame to solidify long enough to pick up the objects, at other times it failed dismally. On one occasion a rock dropped on his head.
"Enough," he murmured, feeling a headache start at the back of his brain, a frequent side effect of spending too long using his abilities. "Enough, now."
He clamped his hands shut, which normally cut off fire instantly, but it flared brighter for the briefest of moments before vanishing.
"Nice," he complimented himself and turned to walk back to the house, totally unaware of the pilot-light sized flame that followed him like a puppy.
