Signalling Through the Flames.

by pyroallerdyce

Summary:

As the car drove along, John stared out the window. Memories were hitting him in quick succession, recognizing places he hadn’t seen in years. For some reason, his mind got stuck on what it was like to arrive there for the first time, the air crisp on an early fall morning. He remembered the coolness of the light breeze, how it was comforting against his too hot skin. He’d always felt so hot back then even though his body temperature was probably the same, or even lower, than it currently was. But he hadn’t grown into his mutation then, hadn’t had any control over it either, and the fact that he’d never burned the whole place down still surprised him.

or: John was arrested at Alcatraz, but the X-Men stepped in and convinced a judge to let him serve out his sentence under house arrest at the mansion. But as John starts to talk to everyone at the mansion, it becomes clear that something bigger is at work.

 

REPOST & REWRITTEN

Notes:

I started writing this back before Deadpool & Wolverine came out, got distracted by life, never finished it, took it down in my fit of emotional despair, and now it's back.

I don't know entirely what inspired this, but I feel like reading this article by Nat Brehmer on Medium about Pyro's arc in the original trilogy really had something to do with it. HIGHLY recommend the read, a free account lets you read it, and Brehmer perfectly encapsulates why I love this character so much.

This is going to probably be a very long fix!John fic that turns into John/Bobby, and there will be lots of getting into John's headspace, which I love to do.

And as always, if you like what you read and you want to see more, please let me know via a comment or kudos or bookmark so that I know I'm not writing into a void. Enjoy!

Chapter 1

As the car drove along, John stared out the window. Memories were hitting him in quick succession, recognizing places he hadn’t seen in years. For some reason, his mind got stuck on what it was like to arrive there for the first time, the air crisp on an early fall morning. He remembered the coolness of the light breeze, how it was comforting against his too-hot skin. He’d always felt so hot back then, even though his body temperature was probably the same, or even lower, than it currently was. But he hadn’t grown into his mutation then, hadn’t had any control over it either, and the fact that he’d never burned the whole place down still surprised him.

He’d been so young and vulnerable then. Nine years old and suddenly dependent on strangers for everything imaginable. He couldn’t do anything without needing some sort of assistance back then. Well, maybe not everything, but everything of importance did. He’d felt safe there, regardless of how cynical the circumstances of his arrival had made him. He trusted the Professor, and then Jean, and soon everyone else in a position of authority. He trusted them a little too easily in retrospect, but at the time, it just made him feel like he belonged there.

Like it was home.

His standoffish nature prevented him from having friends, but Jubilation Lee had somehow wormed her way into his orbit and then his heart. Before long, she was his confidant, the only person who knew everything about him, and John knew that she was the one he’d hurt the most by leaving. Kitty had shown up when they were eleven, and she quickly became his moral compass, so he knew he’d hurt her, too. Theresa came there not long after and brought out his rebellious side.

And the,n when they were thirteen, Bobby Drake became a student there, and he quickly became the center of John’s universe.

The mansion had been home, at least until he was a stupid sixteen-year-old and made the worst decision of his life, all because he was jealous of Rogue.

Fucking Rogue. She’d ruined his life.

No, he thought, that wasn’t entirely fair. She hadn’t made him get off that plane. She’d just been the catalyst for why he had. John didn’t know why, but as the car took him down that last familiar road, being fair was suddenly the most important thing in the world. Maybe it was because he was ready to stop judging everyone he met.

Or maybe it was because he didn’t know what he was walking into, but he was pretty sure it wasn’t going to be fair.

John didn’t know who was in charge at the mansion with the Professor, Scott, and Jean all dead–probably Storm, now that he thought about it–but they’d proposed his release to the government after they’d learned of John’s arrest at Alcatraz. They felt they could rehabilitate him or some bullshit, and they had requested that he be allowed to serve his sentence under house arrest at the mansion instead of some maximum security prison.

And for some reason that was inexplicable to John, the government had agreed to it. If John had been the one making decisions, he would have put his ass in solitary confinement and then thrown away the key.

Saint John Allerdyce, the highest-ranking member of the Brotherhood known to be alive after the events on Alcatraz, and the government was handing him over to the X-Men for rehabilitation.

John was sure the public was going to love that.

The car approached the gates and then stopped. The driver pressed the button for the intercom, and a voice John didn’t recognize answered it. And soon the gates were open, and they were driving up to the mansion. It came to a stop in front of the doors, and the FBI agent in the front seat got out. John waited, unable to open the door on his own thanks to the chains around his wrists and ankles. He wondered if he would be allowed to have them taken off since he was here.

John heard voices talking, one of which was the FBI agent, but again, John couldn’t place who the other was. A few minutes later, the door opened and the agent’s rough voice ordered him out of the car, so John climbed out as best he could. When he tripped over his own feet and fell onto the gravel driveway, the agent laughed and kicked some of the gravel in his face. John kept his head down and took a deep breath, trying to control the urge to jump up and rip the guy’s throat out.

And that’s when he felt a cool hand along his arm, another arm along his waist.

Fuck, he didn’t want Bobby to see him like this.

“Let me help you up,” Bobby said softly, quiet enough that the agent couldn’t hear. John wanted to rebuff the kindness because he knew he didn’t deserve it, but he didn’t think he could get up on his own, so he nodded.

Bobby hauled him up, making John’s eyes widen at how strong he was, and then he looked around. Storm was arguing with the agent, telling him to give her the key to those chains now. A blue furry man that he didn’t recognize was standing near Storm, observing but also clearly ready to make sure Storm didn’t go too far. Kitty, Rogue, and Piotr were near the steps, and when the door opened and someone poked their head out, Kitty immediately ran up them and into the house, reprimanding whoever it was the whole way. Bobby’s arm was still around John’s waist, holding him up even though John was perfectly capable of standing on his own.

Walking in the chains would likely be another matter, especially up those steps.

“Do you need help walking?” Bobby whispered as Storm continued to tear into the FBI agent, and as much as John wanted to stay and listen to it because he hated that man, he nodded.

“I don’t think I can get up the stairs without some help,” John said, his voice low. “So, thank you.”

Bobby seemed surprised at John’s words, but then gently began to guide him toward the mansion. When he got them to where Rogue and Piotr were standing, he nodded in the direction of the door. “Can one of you open that, please?”

Piotr jogged up the stairs ahead of them, and Rogue followed along behind. Bobby slowly got John up the steps, Piotr opened the door, and then John was in the mansion for the first time in nearly five years.

The crowd that usually gathered when someone was arriving was there, and he heard some of them gasp as he came into view, chains on full display and still in his prison jumpsuit. He dropped his head, and Bobby immediately picked up on it, his voice loud and clear as he spoke. “Anyone who is still standing here in two seconds is getting detention for the rest of the year.”

The kids started running away quickly, but John could still sense eyes on him, and he decided to be defiant. Lifting his head, he expected to see some young punk standing there, ready with a smart remark about how he was a murderer. Instead, he locked eyes with Jubilation Lee, and he instantly knew that the young punk would have been preferable to whatever she was about to say or do.

He swallowed hard as Jubilee approached him, seeing all of the pain and anger she was feeling reflected in her eyes, and when the first thing she did was slap him hard, all he could think was that he deserved that. “Ow,” came out of his mouth, and then Jubilee was hugging him fiercely.

“I hate you, I love you, but most of all, I’m just glad you’re home,” Jubilee said in a rush, squeezing John tightly despite how the chains were pressing into her. “I’m so, so glad you’re here.”

John just stood there as she hugged him, and when she realized he wasn’t hugging her back, she pulled away and got a good look at him. “Fuck, what did they think you were, a serial killer?” she asked, poking at the chains.

“I was treated like a terrorist because I am one,” John said calmly. He’d long ago come to terms with it.

“You are not a terrorist,” Jubilee said firmly. “An arsonist, maybe, but you were doing the bidding of a madman, and you better believe that I made sure every single one of those agents was aware of who the actual terrorist was.”

John blinked rapidly. “You spoke to the agents?”

“We all did,” Bobby said, drawing John’s attention to him. “We convinced them to let you come home instead of letting them torture you.”

John suddenly felt weak and even more vulnerable, and he hit his knees before anyone could stop his fall. Bobby and Jubilee both reached for him, but he shook his head, needing to stay down for a few moments. “How did you know they tortured me?” he asked, his voice hoarse.

“Because I told them,” came another voice, and John’s head shot up to see a beautiful woman with long black hair standing next to Piotr, Rogue, and Kitty.

“Mystique,” John barely got out, and she shook her head.

“I prefer Raven now,” she said, walking forward and holding out a hand to John. “Now let us help you up.”

“Bobby, can you…” John trailed off as Bobby’s arms wrapped around his waist and hauled him up off the ground, making sure he was steady on his feet before letting go. “Thank you.”

John caught the way Jubilee was looking at him out of the corner of his eye, and he made a mental note to deal with that the first time the two of them were alone. John’s childhood crush on his roommate had been destroyed, and nothing was going to bring it back.

The door opened behind them, and Storm and the blue furry guy walked in with the FBI agent. “Unchain him now,” Storm said, her voice harder than John had ever heard it before, and he’d been yelled at a lot by Storm as a kid.

The agent begrudgingly walked around and unlocked the chains and cuffs from John’s wrists and ankles, giving everyone a terse nod as he walked toward the door. “When he becomes a problem, call the number on this card,” he said, tossing it onto the floor behind him. “I’ll happily come to collect him and lock him away forever.”

As soon as the door was shut behind the agent, Rogue walked over and picked up the card, holding it out in Storm’s direction. “Here, Storm.”

“Would one of you please dispose of that in the fireplace please?” Storm said, walking over to John and smiling softly. “We’re not going to need it.”

“You’re crazy,” John finally expressed, giving his thoughts a voice. “I cannot believe you’re doing this.”

“We weren’t about to abandon a former student of this school to torture, torment, and eventual death,” Storm said seriously. “Not when there was something we could do about it.”

Jubilee wrapped an arm around John’s waist and pulled him close. “Welcome home, Johnny boy.”

John didn’t know what to make of what was being said, so he said the first thing that came to mind. “Any chance I could take a shower and get some actual clothes on?”

Storm nodded, reaching out and putting a hand on his shoulder. “Of course. Anything you need. Bobby, can you show him to his room, please?”

“Of course,” Bobby said, putting his arm back around John’s waist. “Can someone cover my class?”

“I’ve got ya,” Rogue said, her eyes not leaving where Bobby’s arm was around John’s waist.

“There’s a stack of handouts on the desk. Just have them read through them and do the worksheet on the last page. Due at the end of the period.”

“Got it,” Rogue said as John suddenly realized Bobby was a professor.

Even in a world where he’d never made his horrible decision to get off that plane, John couldn’t imagine becoming a professor. He’d had other dreams, other goals.

He wondered if he’d have been allowed to pursue them.

“I’ll get Johnny some clothes,” Jubilee said. “And then I’ll bring them to the room.”

“Thank you, Jubes,” Bobby said, gently guiding John towards the stairs. “Stairs or elevator?”

“Elevator,” John said softly. “I think I’d fall on the stairs.”

“Elevator it is.”

Bobby got John into the elevator, took him upstairs to the level where all the professors’ rooms were, when John thought he’d be going downstairs to the basement to be put in some kind of holding cell, and then showed him where everything was so he could take a shower. Bobby excused himself, shut the bathroom door, and left John staring at himself in the mirror.

He didn’t recognize the man in the mirror. He didn’t know if he ever would be able to recognize that man again. And he definitely didn’t deserve the kind, gentle treatment he’d received from everyone so far. He should be rotting away in solitary confinement, just like his father had said he would end up someday.

At that thought, John abruptly tore himself away from the mirror and turned on the shower. He took off the prison jumpsuit and left it in a pile on the floor, checked the temperature of the water, and climbed into the stall.

It wasn’t long before he was sobbing, the tears mixing with the shower spray.

Chapter 2

John cried in the shower for an hour.

When he climbed out, he found fresh clothes sitting on the counter, and he realized that either Bobby or Jubilee had heard him sobbing. He wasn’t sure which one of the two options would have been worse, but he figured he had a little while before he had to deal with it and got dressed. He’d been slightly concerned that they were going to bring him his old clothes from when he was sixteen, but these were clearly brand new.

Nothing John had left at the mansion was brand new. Back then he’d preferred everything to be secondhand, so he’d shopped exclusively at all the vintage shops in the Westchester Mall, and he had missed his weathered and worn leather jacket once he’d left. Magneto had bought him one, but it had been brand new, and John had always felt out of place wearing it.

He shook himself from thinking about the past and left the ensuite, walking into his new room and finding Jubilee sitting on the bed waiting for him. Sighing heavily, John went and sat down next to her, swallowing hard. “Which one of you heard?”

“I did,” Jubilee said, looking over at him. “I told Bobby that you and I needed some time alone, and he went to rescue Rogue from having to teach any more of his classes.”

“I hope you know that is a very weird statement for me to hear,” John replied. “I had no idea Bobby was teaching classes.”

“We all are. Or well, I’m just a substitute. Teaching isn’t my primary job here.”

“What do you do then?”

“I’m the school secretary. I make all the schedules, answer phones, and put students into classes.” Jubilee smiled at him. “Then there is stuff that is part of what I have to talk to you about. After all, it’s part of the court order.”

“I hope you realize that they didn’t tell me shit beyond the fact that I was coming here.”

“What?”

“I don’t know anything except for the fact that I’m here.”

Jubilee’s smile faded. “They didn’t tell you the terms of your sentence.”

“Jubes, I don’t even know if I got a trial. I certainly was never given a lawyer to talk to or put before a judge. I was kept in a goddamn concrete prison cell that was twenty floors below ground level at the Pentagon until they removed me to bring me here. I couldn’t even tell you what year it is.”

“Fuck,” Jubilee said. “We need to go talk to Storm and Hank.”

“Who the fuck is Hank?”

“His mutant name is Beast,” Jubilee responded. “But he is also Dr. Hank McCoy, the UN Ambassador. He is the former head of the Department of Mutant Affairs, and he was instrumental in helping to craft this arrangement.”

“Was he the blue furry guy?” John asked, standing up when Jubilee told him to.

“Yup,” Jubilee said. “Now come on, we need to go talk to them. Something about this doesn’t seem right to me.”

They walked towards the door, Jubilee pausing them before she opened the door. “Wait, I need to say this first. I’m sorry I slapped you earlier.”

“Don’t be. I deserved it.”

“I don’t think you know what you deserve.”

“Solitary confinement,” was out of John’s mouth before he could stop himself, and he watched the look on Jubilee’s face change. “Fuck.”

“No wonder you were crying in the shower,” Jubilee murmured. “Johnny, you do not deserve solitary confinement.”

“You have no idea what I did, Jubes.”

“Well, we are going to disagree on that,” she replied. “And you only think you belong there because of your lousy motherfucker of a father.”

John felt a shiver run down his spine at the mention of his father. He wasn’t ready for that conversation yet. “I don’t want to talk about that fucking piece of shit.”

“Not yet, but you’re going to have to,” Jubilee said, opening the door. “I will make sure Peter knows it.”

“Rasputin?”

“No, Maximoff. He is still the therapist here. Part of your house arrest is that you have to have a session with him twice a week.”

“I am not fucking doing that.”

“Yes, you are,” Jubilee said firmly. “I will fuck you up if you don’t.”

John wasn’t in the mood to argue, and there was a voice in the back of his head telling him not to fuck up the fact that he was out of that goddamn concrete cell. For as much as he thought he should still be in solitary confinement, he was relishing being in a place with sound.

John was never again going to cherish the sound of silence. Instead, silence would forever be enough to drive him mad.

“Before we go see Storm and this Hank guy, can I know what year it is?” John asked, and Jubilee paused. “Come on, what is the harm in me knowing the year, Jubes?”

Jubilee took both of John’s hands in hers. “I don’t want to scare you.”

“I need to know, Jubes,” John said seriously. “Please, just tell me.”

Jubilee stayed silent, and just when John was ready to speak, she did. “2014.”

John’s eyes blinked rapidly as he processed that. “2014? Alcatraz was eight years ago?”

“We didn’t find out that they had you in custody until 2011,” Jubilee said softly. “It took us three years to convince the government and a judge that you belonged here instead of that prison cell.”

John’s hands were trembling when Jubilee squeezed them. All he could think about was that he’d spent eight long years practically buried hundreds of feet below ground, waiting for the day when they decided to throw away the key and let him starve to death.

The longest they’d gone without feeding him was a week and he chose not to tell Jubilee that. She didn’t need to hear the depths of how they tortured him.

Sounded like good ole Quicksilver was going to hear all of it though. It figured that they’d make therapy sessions part of his supposed rehabilitation. The government didn’t realize that there was nothing left to rehabilitate.

It turned out that taking fire away from him and leaving him in chains for eight years did the trick.

“John?” Jubilee asked, peering at him in concern. “Tell me how you’re feeling.”

“I didn’t realize it had been that long,” John finally said. “I knew it had been a while, but when all you’ve got is concrete walls and fluorescent overhead lighting, the days tended to blend together really quickly.”

Jubilee pulled him into a hug and this time John was able to wrap his arms around her, holding her close. “Oh Johnny, I’m so sorry.”

“It is so good to see you, Jubes,” John mumbled against her neck. “I can’t even tell you how good.”

Jubilee smiled. “It’s so good to see you too, Johnny boy.”

They stayed in the embrace for a few more moments before John broke it, and then Jubilee linked their arms together. “Come on, we need to see Storm and Hank.”

John nodded and they ventured out of the room, walking down the hallway. “Hey Jubes?”

“Yeah?”

“Who picked out the clothes?”

“Me and Kitty. Why?”

“Next time, can you get them at a vintage shop? I still feel weird about having stuff that isn’t secondhand.”

Jubilee smiled as she brought him to a stop in front of the elevator. “We can do whatever you want, Johnny.”

“Thank you,” John said, rolling his shoulders to try and loosen his muscles. “And is there someplace I can work out still? I knew I needed to try and stay in shape so I made up a workout routine and did it three times a day.”

“Could have fooled me by the lack of definition in those biceps,” Jubilee joked as the elevator door opened.

John shook his head as he stepped inside. “Well, it was hard to get sculpted biceps when I had no weights and my hands were chained.”

Jubilee spun around. “They left you chained even in the cell?”

“Slightly looser than I was when I got here so I’d be able to eat, but yeah.”

“I fucking hate the government and I’ve barely heard anything,” Jubilee said seriously. “Tell Storm and Hank all of this when you get in there, okay? This is important.”

“It doesn’t matter,” John said simply. “What’s done is done.”

“Perhaps, but fuck, we need to know that the government treats mutant prisoners this way.”

“Mutant terrorists,” John corrected. “They certainly loved to throw that word in my face. ‘Hey, terrorist, wake up, breakfast’s here.’ ‘How are we feeling today, you filthy terrorist?’ Stuff like that. And that’s if I got an agent that didn’t hate mutants. The mutant hate was worse.”

“Oh Johnny, I’m so sorry you went through that for so long. I feel so guilty that we didn’t know you were there until then.”

“It’s okay, Jubilation,” John said seriously. “You got me out. I’d rather focus on being here now.”

“Then focus on Bobby too.”

“That’s not fucking happening.”

“He deserves to know how you feel about him.”

“Anything I ever felt for Bobby Drake was destroyed before I left, Jubes,” John said firmly. “And we will not be revisiting the subject.”

“I’ve tried to get Bobby to tell me what happened for years, by the way. He won’t do it.”

“Unsurprising.”

“So that means you should tell me.”

John sighed heavily. “No.”

“Oh come on, Johnny. I can’t help this situation if I’m in the dark about what caused it.”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“I know Rogue was part of it, but I feel like she wasn’t all of it.”

“She was part of it, alright. Except she had no clue.”

“I don’t understand what that means.”

It means that clean-cut straight boy Bobby Drake liked for me to suck his dick before Storm’s calculus class, and just when I thought we were progressing beyond that to more of a relationship, he ditched me for the girl he couldn’t touch without her killing him. But I’m never telling you that.

“Good, you’re not supposed to.”

“I’m just saying, just because you can’t leave the grounds doesn’t mean you can’t be happy while you’re here.”

“Jubes, I mean this with all the affection in the world. Please shut the fuck up.”

The elevator slowed to a stop on one of the other floors and the door opened to reveal Bobby and Rogue. John glared at Jubilee as they got inside, practically daring her to say something. However, Jubilee was smart and said nothing.

“Hey guys,” Bobby said, pressing the button for the ground level. “Classes are finally over so we’re going to get some food. Did you want to join us?”

“We need to go talk to Storm,” Jubilee said, but then they were interrupted by John’s stomach making a noise that he hadn’t heard in ages. “Was that you, Johnny?”

John nodded. “I guess I’m a little hungry.”

“Sounded like Godzilla was comin’ out of your stomach, so I don’t think it’s just a little hunger,” Rogue said.

“When was the last time you ate, John?” Bobby asked, and John was not going to tell them that.

“Don’t remember,” he eventually said. “Not today, that I know for sure.”

Bobby and Rogue gave him a confused look but Jubilee shook her head when Bobby’s gaze transferred to her. “I’ll tell you later.”

Great, so they were going to be sharing info about him. Of course.

“We’ll join you in the private cafeteria then,” Jubilee said. “We’ll have to catch Johnny up on all the gossip.”

“I don’t give a fuck about gossip.”

“Too bad,” Jubilee said, smiling. “We’ll eat dinner and catch up, then go see Storm and Hank.”

John really didn’t want to spend any more time with Bobby, and especially Rogue, than possible, but he knew he was trapped. “Sounds good.”

He might not be physically tortured anymore since he’d been moved to the mansion, but this rehabilitation, house arrest, whatever they wanted to call it, was going to be emotional torture on a level that John didn’t know if he could survive.

Chapter 3

John finished explaining the way his life had been for what he now knew had been the last eight years, and he looked up to see Storm and Hank staring back at him in shock. “Thank you for getting me out of that. I don’t deserve the kindness you’re showing me.”

“We disagree on that, John,” Storm replied. “Hank, did you have any idea that this was happening?”

Hank leaned up against the wall and shook his head. “No, I didn’t, but I wish I could say I was surprised. The president hates mutants and was horrified at what happened at Alcatraz. It just makes me wonder what they’re doing to any other mutants they captured at Alcatraz.”

“If there are other mutants in their custody, they weren’t in cells like mine,” John said. “It was one way in, one way out, and there’s nothing down there but the one cell. Trust me, I looked around when they were taking me in and out of there.”

“How many times did they take you in and out?” Hank asked, and John swallowed hard.

“Only trip in was when they put me there and only trip out was when they brought me here. Otherwise, I was in that cell.”

Storm crossed her arms on the desk and sighed. “You said this was a cell underground at the Pentagon?”

“Yes, I saw the signs that said it was the Pentagon when they escorted me in.”

Storm looked over at Hank. “The one from the seventies?”

“Probably,” Hank said, thinking about that. “Makes me wonder where they would have put him had they gotten Erik.”

“Where they put everyone else, maybe?” Jubilee said, and John had completely forgotten that she was in the room. “We need to find out where that is.”

“I’ll do some asking around,” Hank said. “I’ve still got a lot of friends at Mutant Affairs. That’s how I found out John was there to begin with.”

“Raven should be able to find out something too,” Storm said.

“She needs to be careful. They’re going to notice that she’s hacking into their systems,” Hank responded.

“She knows what she’s doing,” Jubilee said.

“And she knows her mission,” Storm added.

Hank sighed. “This is beyond her mission.”

“No, I think it’s part of it,” Storm said, turning her attention back to John. “I have a tough question for you. And it’s okay if you can’t answer it right now, but I’m going to need to know the answer at some point soon.”

John nodded and Storm continued. “We know that they tortured you, but I need to know what they did.”

John sucked in a sharp breath and Jubilee reached for his hand. “Storm, that’s ridiculous. How is that important to anything?”

“Because of what happened to Raven,” Storm replied. “And because of things you don’t know about.”

“This is absurd,” Jubilee continued, but Hank cut her off.

“Storm, stop. We don’t know enough yet.”

“Which is why I’m trying to find out what they did to him.”

“What on earth are you talking about?”

“They starved me,” John said, making them all fall silent. “They’d starve me until I passed out, and then I’d wake up with bandages on my arms that I was told were from where they’d given me an IV. What they did beyond that, I don’t know.”

“Oh Johnny, no wonder you were so hungry earlier,” Jubilee said.

Jubilee moved her chair closer to John’s and wrapped her arms around him, but John’s eyes were on where Storm and Hank were staring at each other.

“Hank,” Storm said softly, and he nodded.

“I’ll call Raven, and see what she can find,” Hank said, putting a hand on John’s shoulders. “I know it won’t mean anything, but as the United Nations ambassador, allow me to apologize for the way that the United States has treated you.”

“I deserved it,” John said plainly.

“I assure you that you did not,” Hank responded. “I’ll call you once I’m back in DC, Ororo.”

Storm nodded and Hank left the room, and then she put her head in her hands. “They didn’t even put you before a judge.”

“I never even talked to a lawyer,” John confirmed. “So I don’t know if there was a trial or not.”

“I’d almost guarantee that there was not,” Storm said, running her hands through her hair as she sat back up. “I’m so sorry it took us so long to get you, John.”

“I don’t know why you did. I deserved to be there.”

“Johnny,“ Jubilee said, but John just shook his head.

“You have no idea what I’ve done, Jubes. I deserved to be there.”

“You were arrested for the deadly firebombing of four hundred and thirty-seven different buildings,” Storm said, drawing their attention to him. “You were charged with seven hundred and eighty-four counts of murder.”

“Seven hundred and eighty-four?” Jubilee asked, her jaw dropped, but Storm was too busy waiting for John’s response.

“Then they added sixty-two buildings and two hundred and twenty-nine people to the real totals,” John said, his voice calm. “If my math is correct.”

“John, tell me how many of those people you wanted to kill.”

John sat there for a moment. “I never wanted to kill anyone,” he admitted. “But once you’re in the Brotherhood, you do his bidding or die.”

“Oh Johnny,” Jubilee said, burying her face in his neck.

“I told you I was a terrorist, Jubes,” John replied. “I came to terms with it long ago.”

Storm smiled, and John became confused. “Why are you smiling?”

“Because I feel like I am looking at John Allerdyce again, not Pyro,” Storm said, standing up and walking around the desk. “You lost who you were, and we’re going to help you gain that back.”

John wanted to tell her that he knew who he was and that he had since he was nine years old, but he didn’t. One look at Jubilee when she sat back told him that she was thinking about his father, and John regretted ever telling her about the night his powers had emerged.

There was only one person who knew that John had killed his father with purpose instead of an accident, and that person was Jubilation Lee. He had figured that Charles had known, but he’d never said a word to him about it, and now, Charles wasn’t around to bring it up.

“John,” Storm said, reaching out a hand. “I am so glad that you are here.”

“Fuck if I know why,” John responded. “Everyone should hate me.”

“Well, we disagree,” Storm said as John took her hand, allowing her to help him up. She pulled him into an embrace and he smiled.

“Hey Storm?”

“Yeah?”

“Can I make a request?”

“Depending upon what it is.”

“Can I have a radio for my room? Or something that plays music?”

Storm pulled back and nodded. “I’ll round one up and have someone bring it to your room.”

“Thank you,” John said, and Jubilee linked arms with him. “I can’t stand silence.”

“Understandable after what you’ve been through,” Jubilee said. “Storm, we’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

“Make sure you get some sleep, Jubilee,” Storm said as they headed toward the door. “I know tomorrow’s Saturday but you’ve got three Danger Room sessions to do.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll get some sleep,” Jubilee said, leading John out of the room and into the elevator. “Fuck.”

“What’s wrong?” John asked.

“They’re hiding something from us,” Jubilee murmured. “Storm and Hank and apparently Raven too. And I really don’t know how I feel about that. We’re supposed to be a team.”

“The leaders always have secrets,” John said as Jubilee pressed the button for the right floor. “Trust me, there’s probably a lot that you don’t know.”

“And how would you know that?” Jubilee asked.

“I was third-in-command for a couple of years, and after Raven got hit with the cure, I was second-in-command. There were plenty of things we didn’t tell the foot soldiers and there were plenty of things Magneto didn’t tell me. I had no idea he was going to do that to the Golden Gate Bridge, for example.”

“I suppose you’re right about that. And I suppose there’s a lot to catch you up on too.”

“What does that mean?”

“Well, we’ll save that for another day,” Jubilee said as the elevator slowed. “I need to make sure it’s okay to tell you first.”

“Don’t get in trouble because of me.”

“I’m not going to.”

They walked out into the hall and the sounds of an argument drifted down the hall. Jubilee sighed and turned John in the direction of his room, shushing him when he tried to speak. Once they were in the room, Jubilee took a deep breath. “One of the things that you will have to get used to is Bobby and Rogue fighting all the time.”

“Oh great, just what I wanted to hear.”

“You’re going to have to deal with whatever it is that happened, Johnny, so it’s better if you just tell me so I can help.”

“Not happening,” John said, then he realized that wouldn’t appease her, so he kept talking. “At least not tonight. I just want to go to sleep. It’ll be really nice to have a comfortable bed for once.”

“I can only imagine, Johnny,” Jubilee said, hugging him. “I’ll go check on that radio and get it, and then I’ll leave you alone.”

“Thank you,” John said, sitting down on the bed. “When you and Kitty got clothes, did you get pajamas?”

“Yes,” Jubilee said. “They should be in one of the drawers.”

“Thank you,” John said again. “Don’t forget to knock when you come back.”

Jubilee laughed as she walked towards the door. “I’ve walked in on your naked ass enough for one lifetime, believe me.”

“And yet you always forget to knock.”

“Not always!”

Jubilee walked out of the room and John sighed heavily. He hadn’t even been back for twelve hours and he was already sure he wasn’t going to survive this. He didn’t know what was going to happen moving forward, but John was certain of one thing.

He wasn’t going to let Bobby Drake get under his skin again.

And he didn’t care who tried to make him feel differently, even if it was Jubilee.

Chapter 4

John woke up to the sound of someone knocking on his door, and he called out for them to come in. He sat up as the door opened, and was painfully stretching his arms over his head when Bobby walked in.

Bobby took one look at John wincing and became concerned. “Johnny? Everything okay?”

“I haven’t been able to stretch in years,” John said simply. “So moving my muscles like this hurts. But I need to stretch or they’re never going to regain mobility and strength.”

Bobby nodded. “Got it. Anyway, it’s time to get up.”

John looked over at the clock and noticed it was eight-thirty in the morning. “Can’t even let me sleep in on my first morning here?”

“Normally, you can sleep in as much as you want, but someone’s here to see you.”

John groaned. “FBI checking up on me already?”

“No,” Bobby said. “This is a more familiar face.”

John gave him a confused look, and Bobby smiled. “It's just Theresa, Johnny. Trust me.”

“Sorry, but that is a little difficult for me at the moment,” John said without thinking, and Bobby’s smile disappeared.

“You don’t trust us?”

John sighed when he realized what he’d said. “I have no choice but to trust you guys, but it’s difficult for me to do. The last time I saw you, I was fully prepared to kill you, if you’ll recall.”

“Yeah, I remember,” Bobby said, crossing his arms over his chest. “But I know that was all because of Magneto.”

“It wasn’t all because of Erik,” John said honestly. “And if you’re surprised by that statement, you’re an idiot.”

Bobby swallowed hard. “About that.”

“No,” John said, shaking his head. “We’re not discussing that.”

“We’re going to have to at some point.”

“Well, if Theresa is waiting for me, now is not that point,” John said, throwing the bedsheets back and climbing out of bed. “And I’m going to do my best to never get to that point.”

“Johnny.”

“Don’t you need to get back to Rogue?” John snapped, then immediately sighed.

“Rogue?” Bobby said, and then things clicked for him. “You’re still angry with me about Rogue?”

“I’m not angry,” John said seriously. “And I don’t give a fuck who you fuck, though I’d be surprised if you told me you actually have given that your girlfriend will kill you if you touch her.”

Bobby leaned up against the wall as John made his way over to the dresser. “I’m sure you fucked all the girls in the Brotherhood then.”

“Not the girls,” John said, not turning around to see Bobby’s reaction. “And if that surprises you, Drake, then you really weren’t paying attention when we were kids.”

“It, um, it doesn’t necessarily surprise me,” Bobby said after a moment. “I guess I had convinced myself it was just a phase that we went through.”

John tried to control his anger. “It wasn’t a fucking phase, Drake. And if you were fucking honest with yourself instead of still trying to be the perfect son for those cunts you call parents, maybe you’d actually be happy right now. Now get out of my room so I can get dressed.”

Bobby stood there, shocked by John’s words, but walked to the door after a moment. “I’ll be right outside, and then I’ll take you to see Theresa.”

As soon as the door closed, John threw the clothes in his hands across the room and let out a frustrated scream. John didn’t like admitting it, but the memories of the times he’d spent with Bobby had gotten him through the past eight years of solitary confinement. Now, he never wanted to ever think of the fact that he’d had something with Bobby Drake ever again.

John had been in love with him back then; Bobby had apparently been in a phase.

A motherfucking phase.

John took a deep breath and went to collect the clothes, quickly putting them on. He ducked into the bathroom to brush his teeth and comb his hair, and then he walked out the door. Jubilee was standing there instead of Bobby, and John wasn’t really surprised.

“I don’t know what you said to Bobby, but he’s upset,” was the first thing Jubilee said.

“I don’t care, it needed to be said,” John responded, putting his hands in his pockets. “So Theresa is here?”

“Well, she was planning on coming next week to see you because her caseload is enormous at the moment. But she’s here now because Storm called her last night to get an opinion on your situation, and let me tell you, Theresa is fucking pissed. So she’s here to talk about your options.”

John started walking when Jubilee did. “What the fuck does that mean? I have no options.”

“Yes, you do. I’ll let her explain. She’s the lawyer after all.”

“Theresa’s a lawyer?”

“Yep, she works for this place in New York City that provides legal resources to mutants for free. I mean, the company pays her but the mutants seeking the resources don’t have to pay anything. And she’s going to take you on as a client. You’ll probably have to sign something, but I’ll let her explain all that.”

“I can’t believe Theresa’s a lawyer,” John said as they got in the elevator. “I’d think that’s dangerous if she needs to yell in a courtroom.”

“She says it forces her to stay calm.”

“I would think so.”

“We’re going to need to talk later about Bobby,” Jubilee said as the elevator started to descend.

“The fuck we are.”

“Johnny, you clearly need to talk about this.”

“No,” John said firmly. “Drop this.”

“For the moment, I will, but we are talking about this at some point.”

The elevator doors opened and John stepped out to see his favorite fiery redhead waiting there. “Theresa.”

“Johnny!” Theresa exclaimed, running over to give him a big hug. “Oh, I missed you, Pyro.”

John smiled and hugged her back. “I missed you too, Siryn.”

Theresa broke the embrace and looked at him closely, taking in his long hair and scruffy beard. “You need a shave and a haircut.”

“Give me a razor and a pair of scissors then,” John said.

“I will take care of that,” Jubilee responded. “And then we’ll get you looking much less scruffy.”

Theresa wrapped an arm around John’s waist and then looked over at Jubilee. “Babe, are you joining us?”

“Can’t, I’ve got back-to-back-to-back Danger Room sessions.”

“That’s alright. I hope they go well.”

“You and me both,” Jubilee said, stepping closer to Theresa. “When are you leaving?”

“Tomorrow night,” Theresa said. “I thought we could go get dinner in town tonight.”

“Can’t wait,” Jubilee responded, kissing Theresa quickly. “I’ll see you two later.”

John stood there in shock as Jubilee walked away, making Theresa laugh. “Surprised, Johnny?”

“About Jubes? No. About you? A little. About you two being together? Absolutely.”

Theresa laughed. “Come on, Peter said we could use his office for this.”

John followed Theresa when she started walking. “How long have you and Jubes been together?”

“About a year, but it was a long time coming,” Theresa said, smiling at him. “But I’m not here to talk about me and Jubilee.”

“Jubes said something to me about options, but I don’t understand what that means,” John replied, walking into a room when Theresa opened the door. “Nothing can change my situation.”

“Nothing can change the past eight years,” Theresa said. “But your situation can be changed.”

“There are no options for people like me.”

“You were denied due process,” Theresa said seriously, sitting down and motioning for John to do the same. “You never were given a lawyer, you never were put before a judge, and you were never put on trial by jury. The government just illegally imprisoned you for eight years.”

John thought about that. “I don’t blame them for just putting me somewhere and throwing away the key. I’m a mass murderer and a terrorist, Theresa.”

“That doesn’t mean the government is allowed to illegally imprison you. You had the right to a trial by a jury of your peers. You had a right to see a lawyer. I mean, they explained all of that when they read you your rights.”

“No one read me my rights,” John said. “I assumed that meant that I didn’t get any.”

“Those lousy motherfuckers,” Theresa exclaimed, standing up and walking over to Peter’s desk. “Alright, I need to take notes. Start telling me everything about your arrest.”

John thought it was pointless, but he did as Theresa asked. When he was done recounting being arrested at Alcatraz, he told her about how they transported him to Washington D.C. and locked him up in that cell. He described the cell to her when she asked, and he could tell that Theresa’s anger was building.

“I just,” Theresa said, taking a deep breath. “I don’t understand why they would have denied you due process. I’d think that it would be way more important for them to see you tried in a very public trial. There wasn’t even a public announcement of your arrest. So this is all very suspicious.”

“Did Storm tell you about the torture?” John forced himself to say.

“Yes,” Theresa replied. “And the implications of that are not good.”

“You’re not going to tell me what those are, are you?”

“Not until I know for sure that we’re right.” Theresa sighed. “But I really hope we’re wrong.”

There was a knock at the door then, and Peter Maximoff stuck his head in the room. “I don’t mean to interrupt, but I need to have an emergency session with a student.”

“That’s fine, we’re done here,” Theresa said, standing up. “Johnny, let’s go get you some breakfast.”

John followed Theresa to the door, and he stopped when Peter put a hand on his shoulder. “It’s good to see you, Allerdyce.”

“Good to see you too, Maximoff.”

“I’m looking forward to the start of our sessions,” Peter said. “Don’t worry, I’ll go easy on you at first.”

“I don’t need therapy,” John replied, even though he knew he probably did.

“Everyone can benefit from therapy, Allerdyce,” Peter said. “Now excuse me, but I need to get ready for this student.”

John nodded and then Peter sped into the room, the door shutting behind him. Theresa wrapped her hand around John’s elbow and pulled him away from there, leading him towards the private cafeteria.

“Johnny, I want you to promise me something, okay?”

John sighed. “What?”

“Part of the agreement, which Storm called a court order but I suspect actually isn’t, says that you have to do the therapy with Peter, and I think you need to stick to that for now to show that you’re cooperating. I don’t want this lawsuit we’re going to put together to be thrown out on a technicality because you skipped a therapy session. Who knows what tricks the government will try to get it tossed, you know?”

John didn’t know but nodded anyway. “I’ll go to the sessions, but I’m not telling Maximoff shit.”

“What you tell him is up to you, but I do think you’d benefit from it. I seem to recall Jubes and Kitty trying to get you to schedule sessions with Peter when we were kids.”

“I wouldn’t have told him anything then either.”

They walked into the private cafeteria and found Storm and Raven in there, and Theresa smiled. “Storm! Just the person I needed to see.”

Raven looked over and saw them, and she stood up. “I’ll get breakfast for you two.”

“Thanks,” Theresa said, sitting down next to Storm.

She immediately began telling her what she’d talked to John about while John took a seat at the other end of the large table. Raven returned momentarily and set a plate in front of him, giving Theresa hers before collecting her own and moving it down to sit next to John. She tried to strike up conversation while they ate, but John’s attention was on the conversation between Storm and Theresa.

“Hey,” Raven finally said, poking him with her fork. “I’m trying to tell you something.”

John shook his head and turned towards her, giving her an apologetic look. “Sorry. This stuff Theresa said has me distracted.”

“Understandable,” Raven said. “But you need to know what I have to tell you.”

“What?” John said, poking at his eggs.

“Alcatraz was a fucking disaster,” Raven said quietly. “Jean annihilated so many people, so we have no idea about an accurate body count. The government thinks that’s what happened to Erik, but I’ve always suspected it didn’t. So I’ve been monitoring the communication system, and last night, a message went out from his account.”

John felt dread spread through him and he dropped his fork, hearing it bounce off his plate and to the ground. It caused Storm and Theresa to stop and look at them, and Storm sighed. “You told him?”

“He deserves to know,” Raven said seriously.

“Told him what?” Theresa asked.

“Erik’s back,” Raven said simply.

“But he was hit with the cure,” Theresa responded.

“And you know as well as I do that Worthington’s research didn’t go far enough, so the cure wears off.”

John looked over at Raven in shock as she held out her blue hand. “What?”

“I’m not entirely back to myself yet, but I will be,” Raven responded, looking over at him. “I’m sure Erik’s the same.”

Storm stood up and walked over to John, crouching down by his chair. “It’s okay, John.”

“He’s back. How is that okay?”

“That’s for us to worry about, not you,” Storm said, putting her hand on his arm. “If we need to involve you, we will. But you don’t need to worry about it right now. Okay?”

“Okay,” John responded, taking a deep breath. “I will stay as calm as possible.”

“Good,” Storm said. “Theresa, can you grab John another fork please?”

“Absolutely,” Theresa said, standing up.

“Let’s talk about something else now,” Storm said, heading back to her chair. “John, how did you sleep last night?”

John appreciated the attempt to change the subject, and he answered dutifully, but his mind was stuck on one thing.

Magneto was coming back.

Chapter 5

John had been listening to the radio in his room when Storm knocked on the door, asking him to come into her office. So he hauled himself off the bed and followed her to it. He still found it strange to think of the room as her office because it had always been the Professor’s office. Being in there made him think of Alcatraz and the events that went on in the days before it, and everything that happened that led him to those moments. And it all went back to one simple question.

What the fuck had he been thinking when he got on that helicopter at Alkali Lake?

John knew the answer to it. He’d always known the answer to it. He just didn’t want to think about it.

Instead, he focused on what Storm was saying to him.

“I know it’s late, so sorry if I was interrupting something.”

“I don’t know what you could have possibly been interrupting, Storm. I don’t have anything to do. It’s fine.”

Storm thought about that for a moment. “Would you like some books? Or we could get a television for your room?”

“Just hearing music is enough for now. Thank you once again for the radio.”

“Well, if you change your mind on the books or television, let me know,” she replied, walking over to a filing cabinet. “Now, as for the reason I asked you to come here. Theresa doesn’t think what the government gave us for instructions is a real court order, from what she was saying today, but I think we must follow it so they don’t throw out your legal action on a technicality.”

“Yeah, she said something like that to me as well,” John said, watching as Storm looked through a drawer.

“Ah, here it is,” Storm said, pulling a folder out of the drawer and sitting down at her desk. “The so-called court order.”

Storm handed the piece of paper over to John, and he read through it. He was not surprised that the first rule was that he wasn’t to be around an open flame, but the rest wasn’t what he had expected. There were the mandated twice-a-week sessions with Peter that Jubilee had mentioned, but it also stated that he wasn’t allowed anywhere near a telephone, a computer, or the internet, and he wasn’t allowed to interact with any current student or former student who was not now an employee of the school. He also wasn’t allowed to take a step outside the mansion’s walls, not even to walk through the gardens outside, without supervision, and he couldn’t leave the school grounds for any reason, supervised or not.

But the thing that surprised him the most was the sentence after the rules, which said that they were in place in perpetuity. John knew he had never finished high school, but he remembered the phrase in perpetuity meant forever, and he looked up at Storm. “How long was I supposedly sentenced for?”

Storm folded her arms on the desk and sighed. “For every one of the people they say you killed, they claim you were sentenced to life. So you are currently serving seven hundred and eighty-four consecutive life sentences.”

“They want me confined to the mansion, never to leave again,” John said, shaking his head as he set the paper back on her desk.

“And there’s probably a reason for that,” Storm said. “But as we know, you weren’t actually sentenced to anything because they denied you due process.”

“Why are they lying about this?” John asked. “I know you must have some idea.”

Storm sighed, but before she could speak, the door to her office opened and Raven walked in. “I found something.”

Storm’s attention immediately turned to the papers that Raven handed to her, and John sat there as he felt the tension in the room go up without another word being spoken. Raven ran a hand through her hair while she paced back and forth as Storm continued to read, and he decided that maybe he should leave them to discuss whatever this was.

“I’ll just come back, Storm,” John said, standing up. “I’m sure you guys have lots to discuss that doesn’t concern me.”

“Thank you, John,” Storm said without looking up. “We’ll pick this up again soon.”

John nodded, and as he was walking out the door, a sentence from Raven hit his ears. “The schematics look vastly improved compared to the ones Erik fucked with in the seventies.”

Erik.

Magneto.

To say that the thought of Magneto coming back was affecting John would be an understatement. Even the word affecting felt like it wasn’t strong enough for what the news was doing to him. John felt numb, he felt hopeless, he felt…paralyzed.

Paralyzed. Now that was more of a correct word.

He really needed to monitor the communication system of the Brotherhood for himself, but he knew he couldn’t, so he was just going to trust that Raven would tell him what he needed to know. Especially now that he knew he was not supposed to be near a computer or the internet.

Not that he would probably know how to work a computer anymore anyway. It had been so long since he’d been in front of one. He imagined the technology had evolved a lot.

John walked back to his room, still finding it hard to believe that he wasn’t in a holding cell downstairs. He stretched as he wandered down the darkened hallway, but as he approached his room, he noticed that the door was open and the light was on.

Cautiously, he walked up to the open door, finding Jubilee and Theresa in the middle of a kiss in front of his bed. Relaxing, he walked in, but they didn’t notice.

“Ladies,” he said, making them jump apart. “I believe you have wandered into the wrong room.”

“There you are,” Jubilee said, laughing. “Sit down in the chair.”

That’s when John noticed there was a chair next to them. “What is going on?”

“We went to the mall while we were in town,” Theresa said, motioning to a ton of shopping bags on his bed that he had somehow also missed. “We got you some clothes from the vintage shops, and we went into a drug store and got stuff to make you less scruffy.”

John sighed. “Oh God, you were serious about that.”

“Of course we were,” Jubilee responded. “Now sit.”

“Jubes, it is nearly ten o’clock at night,” John said, looking over at the clock. “Surely you two would rather go fuck than give me a makeover.”

Both women laughed. “Oh, we’ve got all week for that,” Theresa said. “I called my boss earlier, and he agreed that I should stay here and continue to gather information for your case this week. I think he sees an opportunity to put the company on the map, but I don’t give a fuck about anything but getting justice for one of my best friends.”

“Sit down, Johnny,” Jubilee said again. “Then we can discuss your options.”

“I thought I had already discussed my options,” John said, sitting down in the chair and noticing for the first time that it was facing the mirror and that there were scissors, a razor, and a can of shaving cream on the dresser. “Fuck, you’re really serious about the makeover, aren’t you?”

“Of course we are,” Jubilee said, moving to stand behind the chair. “We already discussed how it should look.”

“Of course you have,” John sighed. “Do I get any say in this?”

“Johnny, it’s us,” Theresa responded, sitting on the edge of the bed. “When do you ever get a say?”

“Fine, but you’re answering some questions while these shenanigans are going on,” John replied.

“Giving you a shave and a haircut is not shenanigans,” Jubilee said, taking a comb through his hair.

“Exactly,” Theresa agreed. “But we’ll all answer some questions while this is going on.”

“Fine.” John ran his hands over his face, preparing to ask his first question, but Jubilee spoke first.

“So, tell me why you hate Bobby suddenly.”

John sighed heavily. “You would ask me that.”

“It’s what you most need to talk about,” Jubilee said. “More so than anything that’s happened to you since the last time you were here.”

John closed his eyes and tried to think of a way out of this, but before he could, Theresa spoke.

“Besides, I want to know why you called Bobby’s parents cunts.”

John turned around at that, making Jubilee whine. “I’ll turn back around in a moment. Theresa, how did you know that?”

“Because I talked to Bobby, of course. He was very confused about why you called his parents cunts.”

John turned to face the mirror again. “Because they are.”

“That’s not an explanation,” Jubilee said, tilting his head forward. “Now stay still and talk.”

“Fuck, I hate you both,” John said as Jubilee resumed combing his hair.

“If you want my theory on this,” Theresa said, “I think it’s because you and Bobby both haven’t processed the fact that you used to hook up when we were teenagers.”

“WHAT?” Jubilee practically yelled, and Theresa shushed her.

“Quiet, babe, you don’t want to wake up the whole school.”

“What makes you think that used to happen, Theresa?” John asked calmly, forcing himself not to panic.

“Because I once went to talk to you two and found you on your knees with his dick in your mouth?”

“What the fuck, Theresa?” John exclaimed.

“Babe, why have you waited so long to tell me this?” Jubilee asked, turning to look at her.

“I keep people’s secrets, Jubes,” Theresa responded. “And there was really no point talking about it without Johnny here.”

“There’s no point talking about it at all,” John said, but Jubilee talked over the top of him.

“Things make so much sense now. And it confirms a whole bunch of suspicions that I’ve had for a while.”

“Like what?” Theresa asked as Jubilee reached for the scissors.

“I’m going to start cutting now, so really stay still, okay?” Jubilee waited until John nodded and then glanced over at Theresa. “Well, it certainly explains that super weirdness that happened when Rogue showed up, for one.”

“Oh yeah, for sure,” Theresa agreed. “And it explains how Bobby acted after Johnny left.”

“Yep,” Jubilee said, combing John’s long hair one more time before cutting some of it off. “Eight years worth of hair growth is about to be gone, Johnny boy. Then you can shave.”

“I can’t believe I am letting you cut my hair,” John said seriously. “And you two don’t have a clue what you’re talking about when it comes to me and Bobby.”

“I took cosmetology classes on the weekend for a year, Johnny,” Jubilee said, snipping off some more. “I know how to give people haircuts. And if we don’t know what we’re talking about with you and Bobby, then tell us the truth.”

“Fuck, I don’t want to do that,” John murmured, flinching as he heard another snip of the scissors.

“You might not want to, but you need to.” Jubilee was about to continue when Raven walked into the room, giving them an amused look.

“What are you doing?”

“Making him less scruffy,” Theresa replied.

“Can’t wait to see the results,” Raven said, holding up a folder. “Theresa, I need your thoughts on something. But not here.”

“Sure,” Theresa said, standing up. “I’ll be right back, babe.”

“Got it,” Jubilee said. “Close the door behind you, please.”

Once the door was closed and they were gone, Jubilee turned her attention back to John. “Okay, it’s just us. Now tell me what the fuck happened before I shave your head entirely.”

“I was in love with him,” John said after a minute. “And Bobby was going through a phase.”

Jubilee closed her eyes for a moment. “Oh. Oh no.”

“He said that to me this morning when he came in here to wake me up,” John continued, “and I told him that maybe if he stopped trying to be the perfect son for those cunts he calls parents, he might be happy right now. And I know I hit a nerve, but I don’t care. I’m not going to apologize to him for it either.”

“His parents are a very touchy subject with him,” Jubilee said after a moment. “I know that he told his parents he was a mutant and his younger brother was an asshole about it, but I don’t know anything else other than the fact that he hates talking about them. Rogue’s the one who told me that Bobby hasn’t talked to his family since Alkali Lake.”

“Because they’re cunts,” John said seriously. “His mother literally asked him if he’d tried not being a mutant as though that was something you could do. I’m not surprised they stopped speaking to him after that day.”

“You’ve got it backwards. Madeline calls here every once and a while, wanting to make amends,” Jubilee said, tilting John’s head up. “Bobby is the one who refuses to speak to them.”

“Hm,” John said, letting his eyes focus on his much shorter hair in the mirror. “You did a decent job.”

“I’m not done yet, and neither are you,” Jubilee said, combing his hair again. “Keep talking.”

John glared at her through the mirror, so Jubilee combed up some of his hair and threatened to cut it as short as it had been at Alcatraz. “Never fucking cut my hair that short again.”

“Then fucking talk.”

John hesitated until she started moving the scissors to cut, and he held up his hands. “Alright, alright, I’ll talk.”

Jubilee moved the scissors away and combed his hair back down. “Talk.”

But before he could, the door opened and Piotr walked in. “Emergency, Jubes.”

“Fuck,” Jubilee said, setting the comb and scissors down. “I’ll be back, John.”

John stared at himself in the mirror as they walked out of the room, sighing heavily. He waited for ten minutes before he decided he needed something to do while he waited, so he grabbed the razor and the shaving cream and headed into the en suite. He stared at his long beard for a moment before going back out there and grabbing the scissors, knowing that it was way too long to put through the razor that the girls had gotten.

He cut away the beard until it was short enough, and then he reached for the shaving cream. He went slowly, methodically, and eventually, he was staring at his clean-shaven face for the first time in over eight years. He walked back into the main room and found it was still empty, so he walked over to the bed, shoved the shopping bags over, and lay down.

He turned the radio on, only to hear a special report instead of music. He wasn’t sure what they were talking about at first, but then he heard the words that made him sit back up.

“To reiterate what’s happened for those just joining us, there has been an attack at the Pentagon. FBI officials have confirmed at a press conference that Erik Lehnsherr, the mutant terrorist known as Magneto, is the prime suspect. Lehnsherr had been thought to be a victim in the attack at Alcatraz that destroyed the Golden Gate Bridge eight years ago, but the FBI said tonight it has concrete proof that he is alive and the cause of this attack.”

John ran his hands through his hair and took a few deep breaths to calm himself down. It was a coincidence, it had to be. The Pentagon was always looked at as a high-level target in Erik’s eyes, and he was just brash enough to do it this time.

But the fact that, until the day before, John had been a prisoner in a cell in that building made him uneasy. Erik may not have Raven’s help anymore, but that didn’t mean that he wasn’t capable of things like finding out that John was there.

And if he had found that out, then he surely would find out where it was the government had taken him.

John laid back down on the bed, changed the radio station to one that was already back to playing music, and then closed his eyes. By the time Jubilee and Theresa came into the room again nearly an hour later, John was fast asleep. They looked at each other, and Theresa nodded towards the door.

“We’ll finish tomorrow,” she whispered.

“I don’t like that we’re not gonna tell him,” Jubilee whispered back. “He should know.”

“He will once we have more info. We just don’t know enough.” Jubilee nodded, and Theresa linked their hands together. “Let’s go get some sleep, babe.”

Jubilee stared at him for a moment before nodding. “Okay.”

Theresa kissed her softly and then pulled Jubilee out of the room, shutting the lights off and then closing the door behind them before either noticed that John’s eyes were open. He’d heard enough to know that they were hiding something from him.

Chapter 6

John rolled over, trying to convince himself that he’d imagined what Jubilee and Theresa had whispered about before leaving. But his eyes stayed open, fixed on the shadows dancing across the ceiling. He sat up and reached for the radio. The dial clicked as he turned it on, the static familiar now, oddly comforting. Someone was playing Nina Simone on the jazz station—a rare vinyl cut, scratchy and warm. It felt good. Real.

He closed his eyes. Then the music stuttered. One beat of silence. Then something else crackled through.

“Hotel Sierra–Sierra. Repeat. Sierra–Sierra. All cells respond. Priority Echo-Seven. Confirm reception. Message follows.”

John’s eyes snapped open. That wasn’t part of any normal broadcast.

“To the ember that burns still…”

His heart nearly stopped.

“…the phoenix knows its ash.”

Static again.

John bolted upright, the blankets twisting around his legs. He stared at the radio like it had just whispered his real name. It was a woman’s voice. Not Raven. Not anyone he recognized. Precise. Cold. Controlled.

The voice of someone who knew.

A sharp knock hit the door once, then it opened without waiting for a response. Raven didn’t bother with a greeting. She was across the room in four strides, snatching the radio off the nightstand before he could stop her. Her hand yanked the antenna clean out of the unit with a loud snap.

John blinked. “The fuck—”

Raven’s eyes were darker than he’d ever seen them. She didn’t speak for a long second. “Did it come through just now?” she asked, low and sharp.

John stood slowly. “What was that?”

“I asked you a question.”

“And I’m asking one back.”

She took a step closer. “That was Brotherhood code. Deep-level encryption from Magneto’s pre-Alcatraz network. It’s been dead for nearly a decade.” Her voice dropped even further. “Until tonight.”

John didn’t speak. He didn’t trust his voice not to crack.

Raven finally relaxed just slightly, setting the broken radio down on the dresser like it might bite. Her hands were trembling. “I thought we buried that frequency,” she said. “Someone brought it back.”

John stepped forward. “You think that message was meant for me?”

Raven didn’t answer immediately. “It wasn’t a broadcast. It was a targeted transmission. You were the only one listening to that band.”

The ember that burns still.

John tried not to show the chill that ran through him. “What does that even mean?”

Raven looked at him with something almost like pity. “It means he knows you’re here.”

“Magneto.”

She gave him a nod, slow and grim.

“Fuck.” John turned away, pressing a hand to his face. “He’s recruiting me.”

“No,” Raven said. “He’s testing you. Seeing if you’re listening. Seeing if you're loyal.”

John laughed, bitter. “Loyal? I was loyal for years. Until he abandoned us.”

“He doesn’t care about that,” Raven said flatly. “He’ll twist it into something useful. He always does.”

John finally looked back at her. “You gonna tell Storm?”

“I have to.”

“And the others?”

She hesitated. “Not yet.”

John gave her a look. “That kind of secret doesn’t stay buried long.”

“I know,” Raven said, heading to the door. “But until we figure out how that message got through the firewall, we keep this between us. I don’t want Bobby storming in here like some repressed knight in denim armor.”

That caught him off guard. “You know?”

Raven smirked, hand on the doorknob. “John, I was once a spy for the Brotherhood. I know everything.”

She opened the door. “Get some sleep. You’ve got therapy with Peter in the morning.” Then she was gone.

John stared at the door for a long time. And then, without thinking, he whispered the phrase out loud.

“The phoenix knows its ash.”

**********

John didn’t sleep. He lay in bed, fully dressed, eyes open, mind racing. The room still smelled faintly like shaving cream, and Jubilee’s careful handiwork was visible every time he passed the mirror. But the clean lines of his face couldn’t distract him now.

That voice—the message—Magneto.

Just hearing something in his voice again, even secondhand, had torn open something he thought was scarred over.

It wasn’t.

The hallway was quiet when he slipped out. Not sneaky, not panicked—just quiet. His bare feet moved across the carpet like a ghost, muscle memory guiding him down the familiar corridors toward Storm’s office. He didn’t need a reason. He just knew they would be there.

And sure enough, the faint sound of raised voices bled through the heavy wooden door. He stopped, out of view, and leaned close.

Raven.

“…code-locked. I checked the signal log twice. Whoever sent that message knew exactly what they were doing. That bandwidth hasn’t been accessed in years.”

Storm’s voice was quieter, more measured. “And you’re absolutely sure it was meant for him?”

Raven didn’t answer immediately. “Come on, Ororo. ‘Ember that burns still’? That’s not even subtle.”

There was a soft thud—Storm’s hand against the desk, maybe.

“He’s not ready for this,” she said.

“Doesn’t matter,” Raven shot back. “He’s in it whether we like it or not. That message came from somewhere inside the Northeast grid. They’re close.”

Silence stretched between them.

Then Storm asked, “Did he hear the whole thing?”

“He heard enough.”

John’s spine stiffened.

Storm sighed again. “I don’t want to panic the others.”

“So you’re going to hide it?”

“No,” Storm replied firmly. “I’m going to prepare. There’s a difference.”

“He needs to know,” Raven said. “Not just about the message—about the program. About what they did with his blood.”

John’s heart kicked.

Storm’s voice dropped, nearly inaudible. “We don’t have proof yet.”

“We will.”

That’s when the door creaked under John’s hand.

Storm looked up as he stepped inside, her expression unreadable.

Raven didn't look surprised.

“I was just walking,” John said, not bothering to lie.

Storm folded her hands neatly in front of her. “You heard.”

John nodded. “Enough.”

Raven reached into the inside pocket of her coat and pulled out a torn scrap of lined paper. She held it out.

“I jotted down what I caught before I disabled the frequency,” she said. “Thought you should see it again.”

John took the note. There, in quick, slanted script, were the words The ember that burns still. The phoenix knows its ash. Home waits.

Three lines. That’s all it took to make his blood feel like ice.

Storm watched him. “Do you understand what that means?”

John didn’t speak for a moment. “It’s not about me burning something down.”

“No,” Raven agreed. “It’s about what survived.”

Storm rose and walked around the desk, facing him directly. “We’re going to protect you, John. But we need you to be honest with us. If he reaches out again—”

“I’ll tell you,” John said, too quickly.

Storm’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Don’t lie to me.”

John exhaled. “I’ll tell you. Even if I don’t want to.”

Raven watched him closely. “He’s not the only one keeping secrets.”

Storm turned. “Raven.”

But John didn’t flinch.

He folded the scrap of paper in half and tucked it into the pocket of his hoodie. “Can I ask something?” he said.

Storm nodded.

“If Magneto’s recruiting again… why me? After everything?”

Raven stepped forward, serious now. “Because you were his biggest success. Not because of what you burned down—but because you believed in him.”

John flinched at that.

Storm spoke, softer now. “That’s what makes you dangerous to him now. If you speak out? If you change sides again?”

“He’ll see it as betrayal,” John said quietly.

“And Erik,” Raven said grimly, “doesn’t handle betrayal well.”

The silence that followed was thick with history.

John turned to leave. But just before stepping out, he paused. Didn’t look back. “Tell Bobby he doesn’t have to walk me to therapy,” he said. “I know the way.”

Storm’s voice was gentle. “He volunteered.”

That stopped him. Then, colder now, John replied. “Tell him not to.”

And he walked out.

**********

The hall was still quiet when John left Storm’s office. Morning light filtered through the old leaded windows, scattering soft gold across the hardwood floor. He didn’t care.

He just wanted to be alone. But the moment he turned the corner—“Hey.”

Bobby was leaning against the wall just outside the elevator. Jeans, old Xavier hoodie, cup of coffee in hand like he’d been waiting for hours.

John stopped dead. “I said no.”

Bobby straightened. “I know.”

John scowled. “Then what the fuck are you doing here?”

“I’m walking you to Peter’s office.”

“No, you’re not.”

Bobby took a long sip from his coffee. “Storm said I should.”

“I don’t care.”

There was a silence. Bobby took another sip. “You sleep okay?”

John stared at him. “Are you seriously trying to make small talk?”

Bobby shrugged. “We used to do this. You’d snarl at me for waking you up. I’d say something dumb about breakfast. You’d light my jeans on fire.”

“That was before you decided I was a phase,” John said coldly.

Bobby stiffened. The air between them went colder—literally.

“I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”

“No?” John stepped closer. “Because it sounded a lot like, ‘Hey, remember when we used to sneak around and get off behind the dorms and then pretend it never happened? That was a phase.’”

“That’s not fair.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” John said, voice rising. “You want fair? Where was ‘fair’ when you dropped me like a bad habit and started pawing after Rogue like she was your redemption arc?”

“Jesus, John—”

“Was she the prize for pretending you were normal? Or did you just like her because she couldn’t touch you, and that made everything easier?”

Bobby’s face darkened. “You don’t know anything about her. Don’t bring her into this just because you’re still mad I didn’t choose you.”

“I’m not mad,” John lied.

Bobby took a step forward. “Yeah? Because it really fucking seems like you are.”

John laughed once, humorless. “You want to know what I’m mad about?”

“I think you’ve made it pretty clear.”

“No,” John said, voice dropping to a deadly whisper. “What I’m mad about is that you let me believe it meant something. That it wasn’t just sex. That you looked at me like I was someone you could—”

He caught himself.

Bobby’s jaw clenched. “You think it was easy for me?”

“I think you chose what was easy.”

“I had a family, John—”

“No, you had a choice.”

Bobby flinched like he’d been slapped.

John stepped back, the fight bleeding out of him just enough to steady his voice. “You made your bed, Drake. Go back to it.”

He turned and walked away. Bobby didn’t follow.

John’s boots hit the stairs like hammer falls. He reached the ground floor, turned the corner, and slammed into a chest full of silver metal.

“Jesus,” John muttered, catching himself on Piotr’s arm. “You’re stealthy for a tank.”

Piotr gave him a look. “You alright?”

John brushed past him. “Never better.”

Piotr didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to.

When John reached Peter’s office, the door was already cracked open.

Peter glanced up from his seat, chewing on a pen cap.

“You’re early.”

“Is that going to count against me?”

Peter grinned. “Nope. Come on in, Allerdyce.”

John stepped inside and shut the door.

He sat down in the chair furthest from Peter's desk, angled half toward the door. His arms fell to his side automatically, body language he’d perfected during eight years of trying not to look vulnerable in front of men with guns.

Peter watched him from the other side of the room, lounging casually in his desk chair like this was all just a friendly chat. There was no clipboard. No notepad. No laptop. Just a man in jeans and a t-shirt with Einstein’s face photoshopped onto a skateboard.

“I expected more Freud,” John said.

Peter tilted his head. “And I expected more fire. Looks like we’re both disappointed.”

John cracked a smile despite himself.

Peter kicked his feet up onto the edge of his desk. “Let’s make a deal.”

“Oh, good,” John muttered. “I love games.”

“One honest answer. Just one. After that, you can sit here in silence for the rest of the hour. Deal?”

John looked at him. “You serious?”

“Painfully.”

He studied Peter’s face for a long second, then nodded. “Fine.”

Peter uncrossed his arms. “Why’d you really join the Brotherhood?”

John blinked.

Peter shrugged. “Not the propaganda reason. Not the ‘they gave me purpose’ speech. The real reason.”

John stared at him. “You really don’t mess around.”

“Tick-tock, Allerdyce.”

John looked down at his hands. His fingers curled instinctively, the ghost of a lighter, of flame dancing between his knuckles.

“I was angry,” he said finally. “Angry and scared and... small.”

Peter nodded like that was a good start. “And Magneto made you feel—?”

“Big.”

The word came out flat.

John looked up.

“Not important. Not special. Not wanted.” He paused. “Big. Like... the world would finally feel me back.”

Peter’s foot slowly lowered off the desk.

John went on, voice quieter now. “I didn’t think he believed in me. Not really. But he used the right words. The kind that wrap around you when you’re sixteen and pissed off and queer and burning alive inside your own skin.”

Silence. Then Peter said, almost gently, “And now?”

“Now I’m smaller than I’ve ever been,” John replied. “And it’s... fucking exhausting.”

Peter sat back. Neither of them spoke for a while.

Finally, John leaned back in his chair and exhaled. “You said one answer. That’s it. I’m shutting up now.”

Peter didn’t argue. But he didn’t look smug, either.

He just nodded. “Fair.”

A clock ticked quietly on the wall. Somewhere outside, kids laughed, the sound distant, like it came from a world John had no place in. Peter stood up and grabbed two bottled waters from a small fridge behind the door. He tossed one gently toward John.

John caught it one-handed, eyebrows raised. “You’re good,” he muttered.

“I’m fast,” Peter corrected, cracking his own bottle open. “Not the same thing.”

John leaned back again. “You gonna tell everyone what I said?”

“Nope.”

John eyed him. “Not even Storm?”

“She already thinks you’re redeemable. Why ruin the illusion?”

That earned a crooked smile. Peter glanced toward the clock. “Time’s not up, by the way.”

“I’m aware.”

“You want to talk more?”

“No.”

“Want me to talk?”

“Definitely not.”

“Want me to tell Bobby you’re still in love with him?”

John nearly choked on his water.

Peter smirked. “Kidding.”

“You’re not.”

“I’m mostly kidding.”

John glared at him. “If you ever tell Bobby anything I say in here, I will set your hair on fire.”

Peter pointed to his silver mop. “This? Already a lost cause.”

John stared. Peter winked.

“Same time next session, firestarter.”

**********

The teachers’ lounge was empty when Jubilee walked in. Fluorescent lights hummed softly overhead. A coffee pot sat half-full on the warmer, abandoned by some exhausted mutant educator. Bobby sat at the far end of the room, his head in his hands.

She didn’t speak at first. Just walked in, poured herself a cup of the burnt coffee, took one sip, and grimaced. Then she sat across from him, folding her hands.

He didn’t look up.

“Peter told me,” she said. “He didn’t tell me everything. Just said John talked. Said you should hear what he said. From him.”

Silence.

“I think that’s therapist code for ‘you’re gonna blow this if you don’t grow a pair soon.’”

Bobby finally looked up. His eyes were red-rimmed. He looked more tired than he had during the entire war with the Brotherhood. “You want to say something to me?” he asked quietly.

“Only if you’re ready to hear it.”

He didn’t answer.

So Jubilee leaned forward. “I don’t know what happened back then. Not all of it. But I know what it looked like from the outside. And I know what it felt like when you both fell apart.”

Bobby gave a bitter laugh. “Yeah? What’d it look like?”

“Like you broke his heart, Bobby.”

He flinched.

“I know you loved him. Or wanted to. Or tried to. I don’t know which it was, but I know you felt something real. And I think you hated yourself for it.”

Bobby stared down at his hands.

“You left him dangling. You made him feel like it was real one minute, then like it never happened the next. You let him believe it was his shame to carry.”

“That’s not—” Bobby stopped. Swallowed. “It wasn’t like that.”

Jubilee didn’t back down. “Then what was it like?”

He stared at her, jaw clenched. “It was terrifying, okay? I didn’t know what the hell I was doing. He... he made me feel alive in a way I didn’t understand. And that scared the shit out of me.”

Jubilee stayed quiet.

Bobby went on, voice softer now. “He made everything feel bigger. Brighter. Louder. Like fire. You touch it and it burns, but you keep touching it anyway because nothing else feels real.”

Jubilee studied him. “So you traded real for safe.”

“I traded real for... survivable.”

“You know he thinks you were just using him. He thinks it was just sex. That you used him, threw him away, and ran to Rogue so you could pretend none of it happened.”

“I didn’t run to Rogue,” Bobby said quietly.

“Maybe not then. But you sure as hell stayed with her long enough to convince everyone—including yourself—that whatever you had with John was just some... fluke.”

Bobby’s voice dropped to almost a whisper. “I couldn’t love someone who made me feel like I was someone else.”

Jubilee raised an eyebrow. “Or maybe... he made you feel like you were actually yourself. And that scared you more than anything.”

Bobby didn’t speak so Jubilee stood and walked toward the door. She paused there, one hand on the handle. “He’s not who he was, Bobby. But neither are you. If you don’t tell him the truth soon—really tell him—you’re going to lose him again.”

She looked back. “And this time? It won’t be a phase. It’ll be forever.”

Chapter 7

“You’re not gonna blend in sulking in a hallway,” Jubilee said.

John barely looked up from his seat on the stairs. Hoodie up, knees pulled close, foot tapping restlessly against the bannister.

The rec room buzzed behind her. Laughter. Somebody blasting a mutant-friendly remix of some terrible pop song. Sounded like they were trying to sample dubstep with whale calls.

“I’m not blending in,” he muttered. “I’m sitting.”

“Well, congratulations, you’ve mastered basic posture. Come inside.”

“I’m not supposed to be around the students.”

“I told Storm that was bullshit. You need to interact with people, Johnny.”

He didn’t move. Jubilee didn’t wait for permission. She grabbed the sleeve of his hoodie and tugged.

“I don’t do group therapy,” John said flatly.

“It’s not group therapy. It’s Uno and junk food.”

“That’s worse.”

Jubilee rolled her eyes so hard it was a miracle she didn’t fall over. “Come on, Johnny. You’re officially the school’s most notorious ex-villain. At least earn your popcorn.”

John let her drag him. Inside, the rec room looked almost painfully normal. String lights flickered across the ceiling. Board games were scattered across tables. Someone had set up a Mario Kart bracket on the big screen.

A couple of the younger kids glanced over when he entered. Whispered. Looked away too quickly. John didn’t blame them. He hovered near the door until Jubilee shoved a half-full bag of Skittles into his chest.

“Act natural,” she whispered.

“I’m not natural.”

“You’re not special either.”

He let out a laugh—half breath, half bitterness—and sat down near the far corner, watching the room like it might bite. Jubilee joined a card game across the way. Kept glancing over, checking that he hadn’t bolted.

For a few minutes, it wasn’t awful. Someone offered him a soda. He nodded. Another kid asked if he could really light a candle without touching it. He said, “Only if you’re passing Algebra.”

That actually got a laugh. He didn’t smile, but he didn’t leave either.

Then Bobby walked in. Quiet. Unannounced. Wearing a grey T-shirt and a look like he hadn’t slept in two days. John felt it immediately. The shift. The cold flicker that always hit the back of his neck before Bobby entered a room.

They locked eyes. No words. Just the look. And the way the room seemed to notice without saying so.

A few kids stood up. One muttered something about “checking on the pizza.” A girl near the window turned down the music just enough to make the quiet feel louder.

Bobby didn’t move, so John stood and left. No scene. No sparks. Just… gone.

Outside, the air was sharp. Not quite cold, not quite warm. He paced the edge of the courtyard, hands buried in his sleeves, jaw tight. Didn’t look up when Jubilee joined him a few minutes later.

“You really know how to kill a vibe,” she said.

“I didn’t ask him to show up.”

“You didn’t give him a chance to stay, either.”

John stopped pacing. Kept his back to her. “You think this is easy for me?”

“Nope. But I don’t think it’s supposed to be. I get it, Johnny. You’re angry. You’re wrecked. You’re sick of everyone treating you like a live wire. But he’s here. You’re here. So maybe stop using that as an excuse to scorch every room you walk into.”

Still facing away, John said, quieter, “He looked at me like I was a mistake.”

Jubilee’s voice softened. “Maybe he looked at you like he didn’t know if you were real.”

They stood in silence. The rec room lights glowed faintly through the windows behind them. Inside, life moved on. But out here, for a few minutes, everything stood still.

**********

The balcony was half-lit. A single old lantern hummed near the door, throwing long shadows across the cracked tiles. John sat on the ledge, knees pulled up, arms looped around them. Eyes on nothing.

The night was too quiet. Too much space between sounds.

He’d learned to read silence during captivity. It meant things. Screws turning in other rooms. Guards shifting their stance. The way breath could disappear before a question was asked. Now it just echoed.

“I figured I’d find you up here.”

Peter’s voice didn’t startle him. Didn’t comfort him either. He just appeared suddenly, carrying two mugs, and offered one.

John took it without comment. Sipped. Hot chocolate. Too sweet.

Peter leaned on the opposite railing. Neither spoke for a long moment. “Game night go badly?”

John smirked, just a twitch. “I was almost human. Then the room remembered who I was.”

“They remembered who you were told to be.”

John shook his head. “Doesn’t really matter, does it?”

Peter let the pause stretch. “You ever wonder,” he said at last, “why people treat you like you’re going to explode?”

John gave him a look. “I’m literally made of fire.”

Peter shrugged. “No. That’s just the symptom. I mean you. The way you hold tension. The way you wait for a fight.”

“Better to be ready.”

“Better for who?”

John didn’t answer.

Peter took a sip of his drink. “I think you’re afraid,” he said calmly.

“Of what? Bobby?”

“Of being still.”

John stiffened.

Peter turned toward him, voice softer now. “Stillness is where you feel it. The guilt. The grief. The parts of you that got rearranged.”

John stared at his mug. “You ever try fighting with your hands tied behind your back?”

“I’ve been married. Fights with Crystal were epic. So it’s basically the same thing.”

John huffed something that might have been a laugh.

Peter smiled. “Look. I don’t need you to confess anything tonight. But I do want you to consider something.”

John glanced at him, skeptical.

“You keep saying this place isn’t safe,” Peter said. “But what if the thing you’re scared of isn’t what’s outside these walls?”

John frowned.

Peter set his mug down gently on the stone. “What if it’s the person you were before all this?”

That landed. John blinked once. His jaw clenched.

Peter didn’t push further. He just stood there, watching the sky, the trees, the soft lights of the mansion windows below.

After a while, John spoke. Low. Careful. “You ever lose something so completely, you start to think maybe you made it up?”

Peter didn’t ask what. He just said, “Yeah.”

They stood in silence for a while longer. Then John said, “This hot chocolate is awful.”

Peter grinned. “Blame the cafeteria powder mix.”

“I do.”

**********

The garage was quieter at night. Just the hum of standby systems, the low whir of fans spinning out recycled heat. Dim overhead lights made the corners feel farther away than they really were.

John stepped inside. He didn’t know why he came here. He told himself it was the quiet. The warmth of old steel. The strange comfort of broken things. But that was a lie.

He knew who was here.

Bobby stood with his back to the door, bent over a workbench. Tools spread out. A half-dismantled Danger Room projector unit in pieces beside him. Sparks hissed as he welded something closed with a flick of frost.

John watched for a moment. Bobby didn’t turn. Didn’t speak.

John cleared his throat. “That thing’s been fried since last semester.”

Bobby didn’t look up. “I know.”

“You’re not gonna fix it with ice.”

“No, but it keeps my hands busy.”

John crossed his arms. “You always this poetic when you’re mad?”

Bobby set the tool down with a little more force than necessary. “I’m not mad.”

“You’re something.”

Bobby turned. He didn’t look angry. He looked tired. There were circles under his eyes, the kind you get from not sleeping for real, even when you pretend to. His jaw was tense. His mouth pulled tight like he’d been holding in words too long. “Why are you here, John?”

John blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Here. At the mansion. With us. With me. After everything.”

John’s throat went dry. He wasn’t ready for that kind of directness. “Didn’t have a choice,” he said.

“You always had a choice.”

John took a step forward. “You think I wanted to get captured? That I chose to be locked up and turned into a freakin’ science experiment?”

“I think you chose him over us.”

The words landed like a slap.

John’s face changed. Slow. Quiet. Sharp. “You mean Erik?” he said.

Bobby didn’t respond. John took another step. “Say his name, Bobby.”

Still nothing. So John kept going. “Say it. Say I chose the only person who ever looked at me and didn’t flinch. Say I followed the one guy who didn’t ask me to be nice about it. Who didn’t try to make me small.”

“You were dangerous.”

“I was angry. There’s a difference.”

Bobby looked away. John pressed the heel of his hand into his temple like it physically hurt to say the next part. “You left me,” he said. “At Alcatraz. You just—left.”

Bobby’s voice was barely audible. “You didn’t ask me to stay.”

John laughed once. No humor in it. “I didn’t think I had to.”

For a moment, neither of them moved. Then Bobby picked up the emitter again. “I have to finish this.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s all I’ve got tonight.”

John didn’t answer. He just turned and walked out.

This time, Bobby didn’t watch him go.

**********

Theresa kept her voice calm. Polite. Measured. It was the third phone call of the morning, and her coffee had gone cold three hours ago.

“...No, I’m not requesting media access. I’m requesting the names of the personnel involved in the transport and detainment of John Allerdyce.”

The line crackled. The man on the other end—a mid-level case liaison at the Pentagon—sighed like she’d asked him to lift a house. “We can’t disclose the names of federal contractors, Ms. Cassidy.”

“They weren’t contractors. They were agents.”

“I’m not authorized to confirm or deny that.”

Theresa swiveled in her chair, fingers tightening on the armrest. “Then I’ll file an additional FOIA request for every transport between Alcatraz and the Pentagon from 2006 through—”

“There’s a way to make this easier,” he interrupted.

Theresa paused. “I’m listening,” she said, flatly.

“There’s a settlement on the table. NDA required. Closed hearing, no press. The government would release Allerdyce from further parole obligations and seal his record.”

“No admission of wrongdoing,” she said.

“No liability,” he confirmed.

“And in exchange, he agrees to never speak publicly about what was done to him.”

The man paused. “Yes.”

Theresa sat very still. Her voice dropped a register. “I assume the offer includes a monetary payout.”

“It does.”

“How much?”

“Low six figures.”

Theresa let out a short, cold laugh. “Six figures for genetic exploitation, false imprisonment, and illegal medical experimentation.”

The man’s tone remained annoyingly even. “It’s more than most receive.”

“Because most don’t survive.”

That made him pause.

Theresa leaned forward. “I want a complete paper trail of his intake and detainment. Full medical logs. All recorded interactions. And I want them before Friday.”

“That’s not—”

“Don’t say it’s not possible,” she snapped. “It is. What you mean is, it’s not convenient.”

“I’ll escalate the request,” he said.

“You do that.”

She ended the call before he could say goodbye.

Storm was waiting outside the door, arms folded, gaze heavy. “They offered you a payout,” she said.

Theresa nodded. “With a muzzle attached.”

“Are you going to tell him?”

Theresa looked away. “Not yet.”

Storm stepped inside and closed the door behind her. “You’re going to make enemies, you know.”

Theresa smiled faintly. “Good. That means I’m getting close.”

**********

The courtyard was empty. It was late enough that the common rooms had gone dark. Too early for curfew patrols. Just that perfect wedge of in-between—where ghosts crept out of memory, and silence had shape.

John stepped barefoot onto the stone path. The cold didn’t bother him. It never really had. He didn’t have a destination. His body just moved. Through the garden arches. Past the low fountain and the statue with the busted wing. To the center of the flagstone ring, where the staff sometimes held open assemblies.

He stood there. Still. For a long time. His hand trembled once. Just once. Then, with a breath, for the first time since they locked him down, since metal restraints and scalpels and hollow rooms that smelled like bleach and terror, he flicked open his Zippo and called flame.

It came slowly. Not like before—not the instinctual snap of fingers or cocky flick of the wrist. This was careful. This was permission. A small flicker at his palm. Warm. Gold. Gentle.

He didn’t throw it. Didn’t spin it into something violent. Just held it. Let it breathe.

A single, twisting ribbon of fire hovered above his skin. It curled upward like it remembered him. Like it had been waiting.

He swallowed hard. Closed his eyes. And for a moment, not long, not safe, but real, he wasn’t anything. Not a fugitive. Not a soldier. Not a mistake. Just a boy with something beautiful in his hands.

Above, a window clicked quietly open. Bobby leaned on the sill. He didn’t call out. Didn’t flinch. He just watched. The way John stood so still. The way the fire moved with him, not against him.

It wasn’t a weapon tonight. It wasn’t rage. It was a memory. And Bobby didn’t know how to hold it anymore.

On the ground, John whispered something into the flame. Too soft to be heard. Then he let it go. The fire dissolved. And he stood there, hands shaking, breath caught, before turning back toward the mansion. One step at a time.

Like it cost him something to walk away.

Chapter 8

The greenhouse always felt different before noon. Warm, yes—but in a quiet way. Not the oppressive heat of summer afternoons. More like breath. Like a slow exhale settling over the soil.

John stood near the sprouting basil. He didn’t touch anything.

He liked it in here. Not because of the plants—he couldn’t name half of them—but because it was one of the only places where no one expected him to say anything clever. Or dangerous. Just be.

The door creaked open behind him. He didn’t look.

Storm’s presence was impossible to miss. Always had been. Even back in the old days, when she’d walk into a room like she was just checking on lunch and the air would hum like a thunderstorm was following her. Today, she was quiet.

She moved beside him, hands clasped loosely behind her back. Her eyes scanned the rows of greens and herbs. “You know,” she said gently, “this room has its own sensors.”

John didn’t answer.

“They’re tuned to monitor temperature shifts. For the seedlings. Very sensitive.”

Still nothing.

She turned her head slightly toward him. “The flare signature last night reached fifteen feet. You kept it stable. Contained. That matters.”

“I wasn’t trying to hide it,” John said.

Storm nodded. “I know.”

He finally looked at her. “I didn’t mean to—”

“I’m not here to stop you.” Storm’s voice was calm, but not soft. Measured. Like a rain that doesn’t care who hears it. “I just want you to understand that this place keeps track of you. Not because we’re afraid. Because we need to make sure you’re okay.”

John’s mouth twitched. “You think a heat sensor knows if I’m okay?”

“No. But I do.”

He let the silence settle between them. Not defensive—just unsure. “It was the first time since I got out.”

“I know.”

He looked down at his hands. “They didn’t let me. They had dampeners. Needles. They wanted the fire, but not me.”

Storm’s voice was steady. “They wanted control.”

John gave a hollow laugh. “They got it.”

Storm stepped closer. “But not forever.” She paused, then added, “There’s a difference between not being dangerous and being afraid to exist.”

His jaw tightened. She touched his shoulder once, briefly but firmly. “Take care in here, John. You’re not invisible.”

And then she left him alone. Among the green. Among the heat. Among the things still growing.

**********

The kitchen always smelled like toast. Even when no one was making it. John stood at the counter, half a banana in one hand, the other tucked into the pocket of his hoodie. His hair was damp from the shower. He hadn't slept much. Not that that was new.

He liked the kitchen early. Fewer people. Less talking. Less risk of being asked how he was feeling. He hated that question.

He heard the fridge open behind him. Didn’t have to turn around. The temperature in the room dropped a fraction of a degree. Only one person did that.

John leaned against the counter, eyes fixed on nothing in particular. “Didn’t think Iceman got up before noon.”

Bobby didn’t answer. Just closed the fridge. There was the sound of orange juice being poured. A cabinet door. The dull scrape of a spoon in a cereal bowl.

John kept his back to him. “So… you're watching all my night walks now, or was that just a coincidence?”

Still no answer.

John rolled his eyes. “Guess I should be flattered.”

Bobby's voice, when it came, was quiet. “You’re not as funny as you used to be.”

John turned then, slowly. Leaning just slightly so he could see Bobby at the kitchen island—standing stiff, arms crossed, cereal untouched. “Maybe I’m not in a funny mood.”

“Maybe you never were.”

That stung, sharper than it should’ve.

John pushed off the counter. Took a step closer. “Say what you want, Drake. At least I never pretended.”

Bobby’s jaw clenched. “You don’t get to say that.”

“Why not? Afraid I’ll remind you who you used to be when no one was watching?”

“Back off.”

John didn’t. Not quite. He was close enough now to see the way Bobby’s fingers curled around the edge of the counter. The way his shoulders had gone rigid.

There was so much heat in John’s chest, but none of it reached his hands. “You think I came back to pick a fight?” he said. “I didn’t. I came back because I didn’t have anywhere else left.”

Bobby shook his head. “Then stop acting like you’re owed something.”

The words hit like ice water. John stepped back. Just once. Bobby grabbed his bowl and turned, walking out without another word. The kitchen door swung behind him with a quiet hiss.

John stared at it for a long time. Then he finished the banana. Slow. Methodical. Like chewing gave him something to do with the pieces Bobby left behind.

**********

The Danger Room was on its lowest setting. No simulations. No environment. Just matte gray walls and a slightly raised platform in the center, like a stage with nothing to perform. John stood in the doorway, arms folded. Peter stood in the middle of the floor, bouncing lightly on his heels, already in sweatpants and a sleeveless shirt, hand wraps visible under fingerless gloves.

“This isn’t therapy,” John said.

Peter grinned. “Sure it is. Just not the kind where you sit still and pretend to share.”

John eyed the gloves Peter held out. “You want me to punch you?”

“I want you to try.”

John hesitated.

Peter tilted his head. “Unless you’re scared.”

“Oh, come on.”

“Prove it.”

Ten minutes later, they were circling each other on the platform. John moved like someone who’d learned to fight in alleys. Fast hands. No form. All instinct and no discipline. Peter danced around him with exasperating ease.

“You box like a raccoon,” he said between dodges.

“Says the guy hiding behind cardio.”

Peter smiled and ducked under a hook. “Keep your elbows in.”

“Don’t tell me what to do.”

“Can’t help it. I’m licensed.”

John scowled, then—unexpectedly—he laughed. It was short, but real.

Peter’s tone softened. “Tell me what happened the night you burned.”

John tensed.

Peter backed up a step. Not retreating—making space. “You don’t have to explain why,” he said. “Just tell me what it felt like.”

John exhaled hard through his nose. He stepped forward. Jab. Jab. Miss. “It felt like breathing again.”

Peter nodded. “Because they took it from you.”

John’s arms dropped a little. Not enough to signal defeat. Just… tired. “They didn’t want me,” he said. “They wanted the fire. They wanted to see if it could be split, replicated, and stored. They called it... 'isolating the ignition factor.'"

Peter’s brow furrowed, but he didn’t interrupt.

“They tested thresholds. How much I could burn before I lost control. They were trying to figure out how to program it.”

“And when you were finally safe—why didn’t you use it?”

John looked up. Quiet. “Because I didn’t know if it was mine anymore.”

That landed.

Peter let it sit. “Who are you without it?”

John didn’t answer. Didn’t throw another punch. He just stood there, gloves hanging from his hands like they weighed too much.

Peter stepped forward. “You don’t have to give me an answer now. But you should know—it’s a question worth surviving.”

John looked down. “Is it?”

Peter didn’t smile this time. He just said, “Yes.”

**********

The email arrived at 4:12 AM. Theresa was awake. She hadn’t really been sleeping much since taking the case.

The subject line was blank. The sender field read “---”. The message body held only one line. You were right. He wasn’t just a prisoner.

The file attached was locked. She cracked the encryption in less than five minutes. Inside was a scanned memo. Redacted. Sloppy. The top corner was a Department of Mutant Affairs logo. The middle heading read BioMutant Adaptation Study: Pyrokinetic Sample Extraction / Subject J.A.

She sat up straighter. Terms stood out like wounds on the page.

Synthetic ignition transference successful in lab strain XM-S97…

Combustive range equivalent to control subject Allerdyce under sedation…

Replicants exhibit partial cognition over heat source vectors…

Further tests required on direct neural interface capabilities…

She kept scrolling.

A second document. The dates matched John’s final weeks in detainment. A medical chart. Lines for blood volume drawn. Frequency of extractions. Core body temp logged post-experimentation. Neural inhibitors noted.

No listed authorization. No signature. Just initials. C.R. She didn’t know the name. Not yet. But she would.

Theresa leaned back from her screen, pulse tight behind her jaw. They hadn’t just used his power. They’d copied it. Tried to build it. Which meant—they’d tried to build him.

And they hadn’t stopped.

Storm found her in the hall half an hour later. “You’re up early,” she said.

Theresa handed her the tablet. Storm read in silence. When she finished, her expression didn’t change—but the air around her shifted.

Not wind. Not lightning. Just the tension that comes before a storm decides whether or not to strike. “They’ll come for him again,” she said.

Theresa nodded. “Yes.”

Storm’s voice was ice. “Then we don’t let them.”

**********

The lake was still. Not just calm—still. Like a painting, perfectly unmoving. John sat on the edge of the dock, legs dangling over the side, hands splayed out on the wood beside him. Palms up. Zippo open. Waiting.

He’d been trying for twenty minutes. No spark. No warmth. Nothing.

His hands weren’t shaking this time. That would’ve been easier. At least it would’ve felt like something was wrong. This felt worse. This felt like emptiness.

He squeezed his eyes shut. Tried again. Breathed in. Focused. Called it. Nothing. He gritted his teeth. Slapped his palm hard against the dock. Once. Twice. Still nothing.

Then there was a soft voice behind him. “If you start punching the lake, I’m legally required to laugh.”

John didn’t turn. Jubilee plopped down beside him anyway. She didn’t say anything right away. Just pulled her knees up and stared at the water. After a moment, she nudged his shoulder with hers. “Bad magic day?”

“Go away.”

“Nope.”

He tried to glare at her. She ignored it completely.

“Storm said you lit up the courtyard.”

John looked back at his hands. “It worked once.”

“That’s better than a lot of people.”

“I used to light candles with my breath,” he said quietly. “Used to juggle fire just to show off.”

Jubilee smirked. “Sounds hot.”

He didn’t laugh. But he didn’t leave either. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“Maybe nothing’s wrong,” she said.

He looked at her, sharply. “I can’t even burn.”

Jubilee shrugged. “Maybe that’s your body’s way of asking you to stop performing and actually feel something.”

He blinked. “What?”

“I mean, maybe you’ve spent so long proving you’re dangerous, you forgot how to just… be a person.”

He looked away. “I’m not good at that.”

“Yeah. You really suck at it.” Jubilee leaned back on her hands. “John, you don’t have to impress anyone here. You don’t have to control everything. You don’t even have to be okay.”

He swallowed hard. She didn’t push. Just added, softer, “You just have to stay.”

He said nothing. But he didn’t move. The sky was turning orange above the water. And for once, John didn’t think about fire.

He just breathed.

Chapter 9

John barely made it three steps down the hall before Jubilee cornered him. She popped out from behind the supply closet door, grinning like she’d just solved a crime. “Therapy’s canceled.”

He raised a brow. “Since when?”

“Since I forged a very convincing injury waiver. Look.”

She slapped a folded paper against his chest. It read, John Allerdyce excused from therapy due to injury sustained while emotionally processing trauma. Signed by “Dr. Emotionelle” in glitter pen.

John blinked. “That’s not even—”

“Too late, Peter accepted it. Now you’re legally obligated to ditch with me.”

He opened his mouth to protest, but she was already walking, fast and backwards, motioning for him to follow. “You’re unbelievable,” he muttered, jogging to catch up.

“Correction. I’m legendary.”

They ducked through a side door, down a corridor marked Faculty Access Only. The lights flickered like they hadn’t been changed in ten years. “Where are we—”

“Treasure hunting.” Jubilee stopped at a sealed storage room door and pulled a key out of her bra. “Don’t ask.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

She winked. “Good boy.”

The lock clicked. The door creaked open. There was lots of dust. Stacks of half-collapsed boxes. Old file cabinets. A mannequin missing one arm. Rolls of unused banner paper and frayed bean bags from an old rec room.

“God, I love this place,” Jubilee said, plunging into the chaos.

John stepped cautiously inside. Something in him tightened. Not in a bad way. Just old. Familiar.

The smell of paper and mildew and dried paint reminded him of the first time he’d snuck in here, years ago, with Jubilee, Bobby, Rogue, and Kitty. They’d built a fort and thrown a party no one else came to.

It had been stupid. And it had mattered.

Jubilee called out from behind a toppled shelving unit. “Jackpot!”

John rounded the corner. She held up an old denim jacket. Black, ripped at the cuffs. Familiar patches—one half-melted safety pin, the tag barely holding on.

One of his old jackets. He didn’t move.

She looked at him. “This yours?”

He nodded once. Jubilee handed it over. Said nothing else.

John took it. Fingers brushing the seams. Still smelled faintly like burned sugar and cigarettes and whatever cheap cologne he used to steal from the drugstore. He didn’t put it on. Just held it.

Jubilee didn’t push. She just climbed onto a dusty crate and said, “You ever think about how none of this crap means anything unless someone remembers it?”

John looked up. “No.”

“Well.” She crossed her legs. “Now you will.”

***********

The door to Theresa’s office was open. John knocked anyway.

She glanced up from a stack of documents, eyes sharp but not unkind. “John. Come in.”

He stepped inside. The room was warmer than most of the mansion—scattered with paperweights, file folders, and two empty coffee mugs that hadn’t been moved in days. There was a framed photo of her father on the windowsill, half-buried behind a stack of legal codes.

“You wanted to see me?” he asked, already wary.

She motioned to the chair across from her. “I wanted to show you something. Only if you’re ready.”

John hesitated, then sat.

She pulled up a large floor blueprint on her tablet and spun it around to face him. “This is a partial scan of the lower Pentagon facility. One of my contacts got access through the procurement system. It includes transportation logistics, staff stationing, and classified medical labs. Look here—”

She pointed to a small section of the map. Wing 4-C.

X-ING: Biostudy Unit (J.A. / XM-197)

John’s body locked. Theresa saw it. She didn’t speak.

He stared at the label, then at the serial code beneath it. “I know that name,” he said.

“From where?”

His voice dropped. “They didn’t call me by name after the second week. Just those letters. XM-197. It was on everything. My door. The restraints. Even the food tray.”

Theresa’s fingers closed over her stylus. “Did you see other subjects?”

John shook his head. “Just equipment. Test setups. Monitors. They kept me sedated most of the time after the transfusions started.”

“Transfusions?”

“Fuck, I wasn’t going to tell anyone the truth, but…” He blinked hard. “They drew my blood. They said my fire might carry over. So, they kept drawing. Every few hours.”

“Did they explain what they were trying to build?”

“They didn’t have to.”

Theresa waited. John’s hands balled into fists on his knees.

“I could hear them test it in the lab next door. I could smell it. Burned rubber. Heat spikes. Sometimes the walls shook.”

He swallowed. “They got it to burn without me.”

Theresa didn’t look away. She tapped the screen once, zoomed out. “There’s a hearing coming,” she said. “It won’t be public yet, but they’ll try to bury us. I’m going to need your testimony eventually. A deposition. Your version of what they did.”

John’s face stayed blank. But his voice was careful. “Is that what I am now? Evidence?”

“No.” Her voice was clear. “You’re proof.”

He didn’t answer her, but he didn’t get up either.

**********

The door was ajar. John hadn’t meant to stop. He’d only meant to walk past, maybe grab something from the vending machine down the hall. But voices drifted out from the classroom like smoke.

“…if a mutant ability could save lives, don’t we owe it to science to at least replicate it?”

That one sounded young. Eager.

Another student responded, more cautious. “But what if the mutant didn’t consent? Is it still ethical if the outcome is good?”

“Are you saying we should ignore potential advances in medicine or defense just because someone’s uncomfortable?”

John’s hand tightened on the doorframe.

The room beyond was small. Six students, maybe seven, arranged in a semi-circle around Peter, who was perched casually on the desk like he taught ethics by way of friendly conversation and sarcasm.

Peter spotted him instantly. “John,” he called, like they were just chatting in the hall. “Thoughts?”

John blinked. “I’m not—”

“You’re allowed to have an opinion, even when you weren’t scheduled to.”

Some of the students turned. Recognition flickered across a few faces. No one said his name. John stepped just far enough into the room to be seen. Not seated. Not comfortable. But present.

One of the students spoke carefully. “We’re discussing the limits of moral usage in genetic research involving mutant abilities. Hypothetical case: pyrokinetic sample used to develop weapons. Ethical or not?”

John stared at her for a second. Then at Peter. Then at the wall. When he finally spoke, his voice was calm. Not loud. Not angry. Just… true. “You don’t get to ask ‘should we’ when people like me never got to say no.”

The room went silent. One student shifted awkwardly in her seat. Another looked down.

Peter didn’t smile. Didn’t jump in to explain. He let it land. Let them feel it.

John turned to go. At the door, Peter’s voice followed. “Thanks for the guest lecture.”

John didn’t answer, but his footsteps didn’t sound like retreat.

**********

Bobby’s room hadn’t changed much. Tidy. Standard-issue walls. A desk covered in class folders, all color-coded. The bed was neatly made, blanket folded back at a sharp diagonal like a hotel. A few water bottles on the windowsill, frozen solid.

John stood just inside the doorway, unsure if he was really going to go in. Jubilee had said she left her earbuds in here. Probably on the desk. Maybe in the drawer.

He could be in and out in thirty seconds. Easy. He crossed the room. Opened the drawer. And stopped.

There, at the bottom beneath a spare notebook and a half-melted USB stick, was a photo. Curled at the edges. Taken with an old Polaroid, maybe back when phones were still flip-shaped and indestructible. John and Bobby. On the lawn. Mid-laugh.

Bobby was making a face—mouth open like he was yelling something—and John was half-turning away, but their shoulders were touching, and John was definitely blushing. He remembered this day. Jubilee had made a joke about fireworks.

He hadn’t even known the photo was taken.

His fingers hovered above it. Then, gently, he picked it up. The image was sun-faded, but the heat in his throat wasn’t. He didn’t hear the door until it clicked.

Bobby’s voice cut the quiet, sharp. “What are you doing in here?”

John flinched slightly. Not enough to drop the photo.

Bobby stood in the doorway, still in his hoodie, holding a bottled smoothie, now half-frozen.

John lifted the photo. “I was looking for Jubilee’s earbuds.”

“You found that instead?”

“Wasn’t exactly buried.”

Bobby didn’t respond. Just stepped into the room. He didn’t yank the photo out of John’s hand. Didn’t bark at him to leave. Just… looked. At the photo, then at John, then past him, like something behind the years was still sitting there, watching.

“Why do you still have it?” John asked. His voice was quiet. Not accusing. Just curious.

Bobby sat on the edge of the bed. “I don’t know.”

John waited. Bobby didn’t elaborate. John moved toward the desk. Placed the photo back in the drawer. Closed it slowly. Then—hesitated. And sat down in the chair across from Bobby.

No words. No movement. Just silence. They sat like that for almost five minutes.

Neither leaving. Neither looking away.

**********

John’s room was dim. The sun had just started setting outside the west windows, and the light slid across the carpet in long amber stripes. He didn’t turn the lamp on.

The jacket was folded on his bed. He sat beside it. Fingers brushing the worn sleeve, tracing the half-torn patch he’d stitched in with dental floss when the real thread ran out. It smelled like dust and age and something that still clung to him.

He didn’t put it on. Not yet. Instead, he reached into the drawer by his bed. Pulled out the old Zippo.

It felt like a relic. Or maybe a ritual.

He flicked it once. Nothing. Twice. The flame caught on the third try. It danced, small and sharp. He held it out, just in front of his palm. The heat slid into his fingers like an old friend testing boundaries.

He didn’t force it. Just opened himself slowly. The flame lifted from the lighter’s mouth and curled upward, hovering in the air like it wasn’t sure it had permission to stay.

John watched it. Not controlling—just being with it. Letting it move the way he remembered it used to, before it had to be anything other than a piece of him.

It didn’t burn. Didn’t lash out. It just glowed. Steady. Warm.

He closed his eyes for half a breath. Then closed the lighter. The flame vanished.

And for the first time in months, John didn’t feel empty afterward. He felt full.

Not with fire. With self.

Chapter 10

Theresa read the document three times before speaking. The heading alone was enough to change the shape of her morning.

Subpoena to Appear and Testify Before the Subcommittee on Mutant Oversight and Scientific Ethics

She turned the page. Time. Date. Location. It was real. Not a strategy. Not a theory. Not a file on her tablet with names blacked out and context missing.

This was public. This was Washington. And it was coming in six days.

Storm found her in the staff lounge, coffee untouched. “You okay?” she asked, scanning her face.

Theresa nodded, handing over the letter.

Storm read it once. Didn’t blink. But the silence that followed wasn’t indifferent. It was focused.

“They’re trying to get ahead of the leak,” Storm said.

“Probably,” Theresa replied. “Or they know the Sentinel development’s going to surface sooner or later. Either way, it means they’re nervous.”

“Are you going?”

“I have to.”

Storm folded the letter once. Slid it back across the table. “Then we prepare.”

“You’re not going alone,” came a voice from the doorway.

They both turned. Jubilee leaned against the frame, arms crossed, chewing a piece of pink gum like she’d been waiting all morning for the chance to speak.

Theresa raised a brow. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” Jubilee said. “I’m coming with.”

“This isn’t a field trip.”

“Didn’t say it was.”

Storm’s expression barely changed, but something glinted in her eye.

Jubilee stepped further in. “Look, if these people are about to decide how we get classified, treated, dissected, or paraded around, then yeah—I want to be in the room. I want to see how their faces twitch when you bring up blood records.”

Theresa blinked.

Jubilee went on. “And someone has to roll their eyes when they call you ‘Miss Cassidy’ like it’s a compliment.”

Storm tapped a finger against the table. “You’ll need clearance.”

“Got it.” Jubilee grinned. “It was signed off on this morning. I emailed it to your inbox.”

Theresa sighed. “You’re insufferable.”

Jubilee popped her gum. “You love it.”

**********

John sat on the steps outside the common room, one knee bouncing. When Theresa approached, he didn’t look up.

“I’m going to D.C.,” she said gently. “I leave Wednesday morning.”

His knee stopped. “For how long?”

“Five days. I’ll be back by Sunday.”

He nodded once. Didn’t speak.

“And Jubilee’s coming,” she added. “She wants to observe the hearings. She’s… very persuasive.”

John’s mouth twitched, but not into a smile. “They’ll treat her like a sideshow.”

“She knows.”

“Still going?”

“Absolutely.”

John scratched the side of his jaw. “That makes two of you gone.”

Theresa nodded. “We’re not abandoning you.”

“I know.”

“They’re opening the door to a formal case,” she said. “This is what we wanted.”

“Sure.”

“They want to know what happened to you.”

John’s voice was quiet. “They already know.”

She sat beside him, not too close. “I’ll bring back everything they say. Every question. Every answer.”

“Don’t need you to play spy.”

“No,” she said. “You need me to show up.”

That landed. He didn’t admit it. But he didn’t deny it either.

Later, Storm passed him in the hallway. She paused. “John.”

He turned.

“I’d like you to join the second-year team trainings while Theresa’s away,” she said. “Group structure. Supervised space. You’ll still be in control of how much you participate.”

“You mean like a babysitting detail.”

Storm’s expression was unreadable. “I mean, structure is not the same as surveillance.”

“I thought I wasn’t supposed to be around the students.”

“Yeah, we’re not listening to their bullshit list of rules for you anymore.”

He blinked. Then, slowly, nodded. “Then I’ll show up.”

Storm inclined her head. “You already have.”

**********

The hallway outside the lower library was quiet. Dim, with one of the bulbs still out from some wiring issue no one had gotten around to fixing. John liked this stretch of the mansion. No traffic. No questions. Just him and the dust and the drafty windows.

He didn’t hear her footsteps. Just the voice. “You were in his room.”

He turned. Rogue stood halfway down the corridor, arms folded tight across her chest. She looked tired. Not in the physical sense. In the fighting-too-long-without-winning sense.

John didn’t reply, so she stepped closer. “Did you think I wouldn’t hear about it?”

“I wasn’t hiding it.”

“That’s your defense?”

He shrugged. “Didn’t know I needed one.”

Her mouth tightened. “There was a time you would’ve.”

He looked away. “There was a time we were friends.”

“You think this is about me being jealous?” she said sharply.

“No.” He met her eyes. “I think this is about you being scared.”

Her jaw twitched. “I’m not scared of you.”

“I didn’t say you were.”

“Then what the hell do you think I’m scared of?”

John’s voice was steady. “Of what happens if he stops choosing you.”

That landed like a slap.

Rogue stepped forward, eyes bright and furious. “You think you know him so well, don’t you?”

“I don’t have to,” John said. “I just remember who he was when he loved me.”

The silence cracked like a window hit by a stone. She looked like she wanted to hit him. Or cry. Or run.

Instead, she said, “He’s not that boy anymore.”

“I know,” John said softly. “But I’m not the one still trying to pretend he is.”

That was the end of it. Rogue turned sharply and walked away. She didn’t look back.

John let her go.

**********

The door was closed. Lights off. Just the dim orange spill of afternoon sunlight through the blinds and the ticking sound of the wall clock in the hallway outside. John sat cross-legged on the floor beside his bed.

The Zippo was in his hand. Cool. Heavy. Familiar. He rolled it between his fingers a few times. The click of the cap opening echoed in the quiet like a tooth snapping shut.

The first flick gave nothing. The second caught. A small tongue of flame lifted into the air, casting faint shadows against his palm. He brought his other hand closer. Focused.

This time, the flame didn’t flicker erratically. It pulsed. Obeyed. Lifted higher—then flattened. Coiled. Moved like breath.

John didn’t smile. This wasn’t for thrill. It was for proof. He could do this. Not like before—not showy, not reckless. But present. Deliberate.

He leaned back against the frame of the bed, breathing with it. Letting it move as he thought. His fingers twitched once, and the fire formed a ring. Closed. Steady. Whole. He held it there—hovering above the floor—until he felt it.

A prickle on the back of his neck. A shift in the air pressure.

He blinked. Snuffed the fire. Snapped the Zippo shut and shoved it beneath his thigh just as—

A knock. Quick. Controlled. Then the voice. “It’s me.”

Bobby.

John didn’t answer right away. He waited, then stood. Crossed the room. Opened the door.

Bobby stood in the hallway with a bottle of water in one hand and his hoodie sleeves pushed halfway up his arms. His hair was still damp. Shower. He looked like someone trying to act like everything was normal.

John didn’t move aside. But he didn’t close the door either.

Bobby took that as permission. He stepped in. Set the bottle down on the desk without comment. Then sat in the desk chair backward, arms crossed along the top rail.

John stayed near the bed. The air between them was warmer than it should’ve been. Not hot. Just… used.

Bobby didn’t say anything about it. Didn’t ask about the lighter John had slid under his pillow the second the door clicked.

“Didn’t see you at lunch,” Bobby said instead.

“Wasn’t hungry.”

“Rogue said something.”

Of course she did.

John didn’t respond.

Bobby rubbed the back of his neck. “She’s not wrong to be pissed.”

John finally spoke. “I didn’t do anything.”

“I know.”

He wasn’t sure which of them was breathing harder.

“She thinks you’re confused,” John said.

“I think I’ve always been confused.”

That landed. Hard. Bobby met his eyes. And didn’t look away.

“You don’t have to explain anything,” John said.

“I kind of do.”

“You don’t owe me.”

“I think maybe I do.”

John swallowed. The air still smelled faintly like butane. And something else. Something like them.

Bobby stood. For a second, John thought he was going to leave. But he didn’t. He stepped closer. Close enough that the warmth in the room finally made sense.

He didn’t touch him. Didn’t speak. Just looked. Then—just as quietly—turned away.

And let himself out.

***********

The grass was cold under his feet. He hadn’t bothered with shoes. The moonlight painted the lawn silver, and the trees at the edge of the field stood like waiting statues. John walked until the windows of the mansion were just points of soft gold behind him. Until it felt like the rest of the world had gone still.

He sat in the damp grass and pulled the Zippo from his pocket. Turned it over in his hands. No audience. No adrenaline. Just the night.

He flicked it once. A spark, then flame.

It hovered, low and calm. He coaxed it forward—just an inch—off the wick. It danced above his palm like it knew its place this time. It didn’t lash. Didn’t resist. It warmed the tips of his fingers like it had missed him.

John exhaled. Didn’t close his eyes. Didn’t move. Just sat there with the flame. No goal. No fear. Just being.

He whispered, barely audible over the wind, “That’s enough.”

Then closed the lid.

The flame vanished. And the warmth stayed.

Chapter 11

Storm stood in the center of the floor, clipboard in hand, posture exact. Eight second-year students circled her in loose formation. Most of them in full black gear. A couple hadn’t zipped their vests.

John didn’t wear the gear. Just dark jeans, boots, and the long-sleeve cotton shirt she’d told him was fine “for now.” He stayed near the wall. Didn’t lean on it. Didn’t fidget.

He just stood watching.

Storm’s voice cut through the idle chatter. “Before we begin, I’d like to reintroduce someone.”

Heads turned. Some fast. Some slow. No one smiled.

“This is John Allerdyce,” she said. “Some of you may know him. Others may not. He’s here to observe, assist when asked, and participate when capable.”

She didn’t say anything else. No speech about redemption. No hint of the Brotherhood. Just the facts.

John met their eyes one by one. No flinching. No invitation either.

A tall guy with braided hair narrowed his gaze. A girl with chrome-plated prosthetic fingers muttered something under her breath to the boy next to her. Only one broke the silence.

“Glad you’re here,” said Rahne Sinclair. Her voice was soft, her eyes not quite.

It was the kind of sentence people said when they didn’t want to be quoted saying anything worse.

John didn’t reply. Didn’t nod.

Storm turned without missing a beat. “Alright. Pair off. Standard relay warm-up.”

John stayed still. Storm didn’t assign him a partner. Didn’t look his way again.

He could feel their attention shift—just enough to remind him that in this room, his presence wasn’t quite real yet. He was dry wood in a pile of tinder.

And everyone was waiting to see what would spark first.

**********

“Switch partners,” Storm called. “Next round: obstacle coordination. You’ve got ten seconds to tag your target before it clears the sensor grid. Points deducted for damage outside the dummy itself.”

The room shuffled and stretched. John didn’t move. Storm didn’t call him out. She didn’t have to.

A pause, then, “Allerdyce, you’re with Maria.”

A ripple passed through the group like a dropped stone in a shallow pool. Maria—tall, dark hair twisted in silver bands, with eyes that flicked like knives—gave a dry laugh. “Of course I am.”

John crossed to the square across from her.

She didn’t offer a handshake. Didn’t speak. She raised her hand to hover beside her temple—her telekinetic focus gesture. A training dummy rolled into place twenty feet ahead of them.

The countdown buzzed. Three. Two. One.

Maria’s hands flicked, and a series of floating barriers lifted between them and the dummy—floating crates, a sweep-arm, a fast-turn drone.

John didn’t react. Didn’t summon. Didn’t flinch. He watched. The dummy cleared the second marker.

Storm’s voice was cool behind them, “Five seconds remaining.”

Maria hissed through her teeth. “I said go.”

John’s hand moved. Just a flick of the wrist. The Zippo was in his palm before the others even noticed. Click. Flame.

He pointed. The fire formed an arc. Not a wild, leaping burst. A line. A perfect jet that curled low under the drone, dodged the sweep-arm, and burst into the dummy’s chest like a single breath held too long.

The fire didn’t spread. It stayed where he sent it. When it was done, the dummy’s upper half melted at the edges—smoking, but not hazardous.

Everyone stared. Even Storm blinked. Maria lowered her hands.

“Well,” she muttered. “Guess that’s still in working order.”

John flipped the Zippo shut. Didn’t smile. Didn’t look at anyone.

Storm’s voice came after a long beat. “Again.”

**********

The cement steps behind the rec wing were cracked, old, and full of spiders. John didn’t care. He sat there anyway, hoodie drawn over his knees, the back of his wrist smudged with leftover soot.

He wasn’t hiding. Just... cooling off. Footsteps approached, slow and deliberate. John didn’t turn.

Bobby dropped onto the step beside him, arms on his knees. They didn’t speak right away. The grass below swayed faintly in the wind, still damp from yesterday’s rain.

“I saw you,” Bobby said at last.

John glanced sideways. “Everyone did.”

“No—I mean, I saw you.”

John’s mouth curled slightly. “Careful. That almost sounds complimentary.”

Bobby gave a dry snort. Then scratched the inside of his palm like he didn’t know what to do with his fingers.

John leaned back on his elbows, letting the sky press down against his chest. “I didn’t lose control,” he said after a moment.

“I know.”

“I didn’t plan it either. I just… didn’t want to miss.”

“You didn’t.”

More silence. It wasn’t heavy. Not yet.

“You didn’t flinch,” John added.

“I’ve seen what you can do,” Bobby said.

John turned to look at him fully now. “Have you?”

The air pulled taut between them. Bobby didn’t blink. But his voice softened. “I’m not scared of you.”

John’s reply came slower. “I’m not either.”

Their eyes held for a breath too long. Then—the scrape of boots. A sharp intake of breath.

John broke the gaze first. Rogue stood ten feet away, arms crossed, body angled like a shield.

Bobby stood. Not defensively. Not guiltily. But like he knew what this looked like.

She didn’t speak to John. Didn’t even look at him. Only said, “We have a session.”

Bobby hesitated, then nodded. He followed her.

John watched them go. Didn’t move. Didn’t sigh.

He just flicked the Zippo once—not for fire. Just for sound.

Click.

**********

The laptop screen lit the room in pale blue. John sat hunched over the desk, hoodie drawn up, sleeves tugged down over his palms. The call had rung three times before he answered.

Jubilee appeared first. “About time.”

She was stretched across a hotel bed, chewing a pen cap, hair in a bun that looked like it had lost three fights.

Behind her, the TV played something silent and flickering.

Theresa leaned in from the side, holding a tablet. Her face was sharper than usual. Not angry—just wound too tight. “You need to see this,” she said.

Jubilee turned the laptop slightly so John could catch the screen in the background. A blurry still of what looked like a concrete hallway. Harsh overhead lighting. Some sort of containment cell. The fire in the image was unmistakable.

His fire.

“That’s from the third week,” John muttered.

“You recognize it?” Theresa asked.

He nodded.

“No face,” Jubilee said. “They kept it anonymous. But they’re already calling it a ‘mutant weapons test’ on a few blogs.”

Theresa added, “The leak was too clean to be accidental. Controlled release. Preemptive damage control.”

“Government source?” John asked.

“Probably. Or a sympathetic lab tech who thought they were helping.”

John leaned back in the chair. Didn’t speak for a moment. “Do they say it’s me?”

Jubilee shook her head. “No names. No dates. No subject ID. But c’mon. It’s you.”

“They’ll deny it,” Theresa said. “Until it’s convenient not to.”

John looked past the screen. Out the window. Darkness. The kind that didn’t scare him anymore.

“You should get ahead of it,” Jubilee said. “Own it.”

“Not yet,” Theresa interjected. “We let them overplay their hand.”

John stood slowly. “Them showing that fire,” he said, “might be the first honest thing they’ve done.”

Jubilee frowned. “You okay?”

He closed the laptop without answering. The screen went black.

So did the room.

**********

The hallway was quieter at night. Not silent. The building had its own language—creaks in the pipes, hums in the walls, the occasional shifting of old wood like it remembered where it used to live.

John walked it anyway. Barefoot. He passed the faculty wing, the side stairs, and the study alcove no one used anymore. Stopped at the far end.

The light still flickered above the archway where Rogue had stopped him days ago.

Still dying. Still trying.

John leaned against the wall and pulled the Zippo from his pocket.

Turned it over. Didn’t light it. Just clicked it open and shut. Once. Twice. Three times.

The sound echoed faintly against the stone tile. He stood there with it—click, pause, click—like a nervous tic. Like a heartbeat that didn’t know how fast it should go.

“You’re gonna wear that thing out,” came a voice behind him.

John didn’t turn. “I’m not going to apologize,” he said.

“I don’t want you to.”

Bobby moved beside him, not too close. They both looked up at the flickering bulb.

“You think they ever plan to fix that?” Bobby asked.

“I hope not,” John said. “It’s the only honest light in this place.”

Bobby laughed under his breath. Soft. Surprised.

They stood there a while. Not speaking. Not touching. Just two silhouettes framed by a broken light.

Eventually, Bobby asked, “What were you doing out here?”

John shrugged. “Remembering how quiet it was before everything got loud again.”

Bobby nodded. Didn’t argue. Didn’t explain what he was doing out here, either.

Neither of them moved. Not yet. Not first.

Chapter 12

The blog wasn’t even reputable. Some fringe gossip site that prided itself on “underground mutant info” and low-res screenshots from public protests. But it didn’t matter.

The link spread through the student chat channels in under an hour. Some had the decency not to open it. Most didn’t.

The image was a flame curling up toward a lab ceiling, blurry but recognizable. The headline read Weaponized Fire? Brotherhood Mutant Possibly Back at Xavier’s.

No name. No confirmation. But everyone knew.

By midmorning, people were whispering before he entered rooms. By lunch, they weren’t bothering to whisper.

John walked into the cafeteria like he always did—quiet, fast, hoodie sleeves pulled past his wrists. He didn’t look around. Didn’t need to. He could feel the eyes.

He grabbed a tray. Skipped the hot line. Just bread, some fruit, a bottle of water. As he turned toward the back corner, someone said it. Loud enough to carry.

“Hey, you do birthday parties? Or just war crimes?”

The table laughed. Not everyone. But enough.

John stopped walking. Didn’t turn. Didn’t flinch. But then he heard another voice.

“Knock it off,” said Rahne.

The kid—a lanky boy —looked up. “Wasn’t talking to you.”

“You are now.”

John didn’t move.

Rahne stood. Walked over to the kid’s table. Bent down, close enough for only him to hear. Whatever she said wasn’t loud. But it shut him up.

Hard.

She walked back, passed John without pausing. As she slid her tray down across from her usual seat, she muttered, “You don’t have to pretend it doesn’t get to you.”

John sat beside her. Tore a piece off the bread roll. “I’m not pretending.”

**********

The drone had barely cleared the second marker when Bobby raised his hand. “Too slow,” he muttered.

The ice spike flew too high—missed the drone entirely—and shattered against the control wall.

Everyone ducked instinctively. Even Storm.

She straightened slowly, hands clasped behind her back. “Again,” she said calmly.

Bobby exhaled through his teeth. Reset. This time, the drone weaved to the left, flanked by two heat-projecting obstacles designed to mess with his precision.

He fired fast. Too fast. The ice sheet burst outward like a static charge, coating the floor and catching on the wall just behind Rahne. She yelped, stumbled, and nearly fell.

“Stop!” Storm barked.

The Danger Room locked in place.

Bobby lowered his hand. His knuckles were white. His breath came hard.

Storm crossed the floor. Calm. Measured. “Session’s over,” she said to the others. “We’ll resume tomorrow.”

No one argued.

As the others filed out, Bobby stood still. He didn’t look at her. Not until they were alone. “Wasn’t trying to hit her,” he muttered.

“I know.”

“She got in the way.”

“She didn’t.”

He winced.

Storm tilted her head. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.”

“Because I’ve seen you lose your temper. This wasn’t that.”

He rubbed his face. “Then what was it?”

She stepped closer. “You’re carrying heat,” she said. “That doesn’t belong to you.”

He laughed, bitter. “Maybe it does.”

Storm watched him for a long moment. But she didn’t argue. Didn’t comfort. Just said, “You can cool it down. Or you can wait until it cracks something.”

Then she walked away.

Bobby didn’t move. Not for a long time.

**********

The room was colder than it looked on camera. Theresa knew the game—suits, lights, microphones that could be cut at any moment. She sat at the center table alone.

Behind her: aides, observers, one activist in a faded M-Unity shirt who met her gaze and nodded. To her right: the chair of the subcommittee, Senator Arnett. Silver hair, sharper teeth. To her left: two military advisors. Neutral expression. Crossed arms. Boredom weaponized.

They opened with softballs.

“Ms. Cassidy, how long have you worked with the mutant known as John Allerdyce?”

“Approximately four and a half months.”

“Would you say he poses a current threat to national security?”

“No more than any untreated trauma survivor.”

Arnett raised an eyebrow. “And you believe his detainment was unlawful?”

“I know it was.”

The tone shifted. A new senator leaned in. “Are you aware that footage leaked earlier this week shows what appears to be pyrotechnic damage in a military facility?”

“I’ve seen it.”

“Can you confirm that this was Mr. Allerdyce?”

“No.”

“Are you suggesting it isn’t?”

“I’m suggesting you don’t want it to be.”

Arnett cleared his throat. “Ms. Cassidy, we’re here to assess whether the government’s actions were in response to legitimate threat assessments—”

“I understand that.”

She reached into her folder. Produced a single, heavily redacted memo. Black bars covered 80% of the page. But one phrase was visible near the top: “mutant pyrokinesis sample viability—subject: sustained ignition tolerance.”

She slid it forward. “I’d like this entered into the record.”

Arnett didn’t reach for it. Neither did anyone else. “Where did you acquire this?” he asked.

“A former lab tech sent it anonymously. Dated three weeks before Mr. Allerdyce was released.”

The silence was the loudest sound in the room. Finally, one of the military men leaned forward. “Ms. Cassidy—do you understand the gravity of what you’re suggesting?”

She smiled without warmth. “I’m not suggesting anything. I’m showing it.”

**********

The hallway smelled like politics and disinfectant. Jubilee paced near the mural of the Capitol dome on the fourth floor of the Senate annex, chewing gum aggressively and pretending not to be watching the door.

Theresa had told her to stay out of the hearing. “Let me take the heat,” she’d said.

But she hadn’t said not to watch. So Jubilee had the livestream open on her phone—muted, screen tilted low. The feed was shaky. Senator Arnett was talking again.

Behind him, on the edge of the screen, Theresa’s profile was sharp and still.

Then—movement off-camera. Just outside the open doorway, across the hall. A man stood there. Not security. Not press. Grey suit, no badge, no clipboard.

Just standing. Watching.

Jubilee shifted. Walked a slow arc across the hallway to get a better angle.

He didn’t look at her. Didn’t acknowledge anyone.

He was watching Theresa. Not the room.

Her.

Then she saw it. On his lapel. A small silver pin. Three geometric lines that formed an inverted triangle.

Trask Industries.

She took out her phone again. Not the livestream now. Her camera. She held it low, angled sideways.

Snapped a photo. Then another. Then sent them to Storm with one message, Trask guy here. Watching Theresa. Didn’t blink once.

The reply came less than a minute later. Keep your distance. We’ll track his ID. Do not engage.

Jubilee slid her phone into her jacket. Didn’t respond. But her hands stayed tight in her pockets the rest of the hour.

And her gum lost its flavor fast.

**********

Storm’s office was warm. Not in temperature. In tone. Bookshelves lined with decades of journals, weather models, old team photos that hadn’t been updated in years. John stood just inside the door, hands in his hoodie pockets.

Storm didn’t sit behind her desk. She stood near the window, one hand resting lightly on the sill. “You got Jubilee’s message,” he said.

“Yes.”

“You think he saw me?”

“No. But he was watching Theresa. And she’s here because of you.”

John nodded once. Nothing defensive in it. Nothing apologetic either.

Storm turned. Her expression was calm. Neutral. But her voice was precise. “We’re not grounding you. You haven’t done anything wrong. But this changes things.”

“Because someone from Trask might’ve seen a picture of my fire?”

“Because someone from Trask has seen you now.”

John’s jaw clenched. “You think they’ll come after me?”

“I think we can’t afford to let them define the story.”

A long pause. Then she added, “No more open flame in shared spaces. No use of fire unless cleared by faculty. And no solo training.”

He nodded again. Still expressionless. “Fine.”

“John—”

He looked at her then. Really looked. There was no spark in his eyes. Just long-simmered heat. “I get it,” he said. “No fire unless it’s on your terms.”

“This isn’t about control.”

“Feels familiar.”

Storm stepped forward. “I’m not them.”

John held her gaze. Then turned. Opened the door. Before he stepped out, he said, “Then don’t treat me like I am.”

The door closed behind him with a click. Storm didn’t move.

Outside, thunder rolled quietly in the clouds.

Chapter 13

The library was technically closed. But Rogue sat at the research table in the far corner, glowing screen reflected in her eyes, scrolling fast through a restricted file Theresa had sent to Storm for legal coordination.

She wasn’t supposed to have the login. She wasn’t supposed to be reading it. But curiosity was a powerful mutagen.

Footsteps behind her. Not light enough to be Storm. Not sharp enough to be Jubilee.

Bobby.

She minimized the screen in a flash. Too late.

He stood just behind her, arms crossed, lips pressed tight. “What was that?” he asked.

“Nothin’,” she said, too quickly.

“You minimized the window.”

“It’s legal stuff. Just—briefs. Background on the case.”

“You don’t read legal briefs.”

She pushed the chair back and stood. “Do you even care what they did to him?”

“Of course I care.”

“Then why does it feel like you only care when I do?”

He blinked. That one landed hard.

Rogue stepped closer, arms crossed now too. “Bobby… I know what this is. I know you’re tryin’ to pretend like it’s just sympathy, or guilt, or whatever it is you’ve been feedin’ yourself. But you’re not scared for John. You’re scared of him.”

He didn’t answer. Not right away. Then he said, “You didn’t see him in the Danger Room.”

“I saw him in the med wing, Bobby. He couldn’t walk straight.”

“That was weeks ago.”

She lowered her voice. “So what exactly are you afraid of now?”

Bobby’s hand tightened at his side. “You,” he said. “I’m afraid of you picking his side and not telling me.”

“I’m not picking sides.”

“You already have.”

He turned sharply. The door swung too hard behind him. He strode down the hallway, shoulders tight.

Didn’t notice the figure leaning against the alcove near the stairwell.

John. Hood up. Watching. He didn’t smirk. Didn’t speak.

Just met Bobby’s eyes.

Bobby looked away first. Always did.

**********

John was halfway through untangling the cords behind the AV cabinet in the common room when Theresa’s voice buzzed in through the com device clipped to his collar.

He hated wearing it. Hated the tiny light. The sound. The constant presence of it. But she insisted.

“Hey,” her voice crackled. “Heads up. Got a ping from our background cross-check.”

He pressed the button once. “Go.”

“There’s a contractor on-site—shows up on Trask payroll five months ago. Currently listed under a third-party subcontractor name.”

“Doing what?”

“Supposed to be HVAC maintenance. But he’s not logged in for any of the external system panels. Just internal walkthroughs.”

John sat back on his heels, cords hanging from one hand like dead snakes. “So you think they sent a spy.”

“I think they sent a test.”

He said nothing.

“Just… keep your eyes open,” Theresa added.

Click. Silence.

John stood. Walked the north corridor past the music wing. Paused by the boiler alcove. There—behind a stack of utility bins—stood a man in a grey uniform with no visible name tag. Mid-40s. Short-cropped hair. Work belt too clean. Not touching anything. Just standing there.

And watching the wall.

John slowed.

The man didn’t turn. Didn’t flinch. But as John passed, he spoke without looking. “Warm for October.”

John stopped. No one had mentioned the weather. Not to him. Not in that hallway. Not ever.

He turned slightly. Met the man’s gaze. The smile was slight. Measured. Familiar—not the face. But the expression.

He’d seen it before. Reflected in mirrored glass. Observation rooms.

Theresa’s voice echoed again in his head. “I think they sent a test.”

John didn’t speak. Just nodded once. Then walked on. Slowly. Calmly.

But his thumb slid the Zippo open and closed inside his pocket the whole way back to his room.

**********

The clock ticked louder in Peter’s office than it did anywhere else in the mansion. Not because it was big. Just uncovered. Unhidden.

John sat on the couch—knees drawn up, boots scuffed, hoodie pulled low. He hadn’t spoken since he walked in. Peter didn’t seem to mind.

He sat across from him, one ankle crossed over the opposite knee, legal pad on his thigh, pen capped. He wasn’t writing. Not yet.

“You ever work with a glassblower?” Peter asked quietly.

John looked up. Frowned faintly. “No,” he said.

“They use a furnace,” Peter said. “One thousand degrees minimum. No room for error.”

John didn’t respond.

Peter went on. “There was this one man—older, sharp, didn’t say much. He used to tap the rim of his furnace with a hammer before he started every session. Every time.”

“Why?” John asked, despite himself.

“To listen,” Peter said. “You can tell if the steel is cracked by the sound it makes.”

John leaned back. Silent again.

Peter smiled just slightly. “It’s not always about control. Sometimes it’s about making sure nothing’s broken before you try to hold the heat.”

John’s fingers tightened. His hand dipped into the hoodie pocket. Pulled the Zippo out. He flicked it once. Didn’t light it. Just listened.

Then he tucked it into the pocket of the couch cushion. Behind him. Didn’t meet Peter’s eyes.

“See you next week,” John muttered.

Peter nodded. “Same time.”

John left. Door closed. Peter didn’t write anything. Just reached for the lighter, turned it over once in his hand.

And placed it on the desk.

Unlit.

Waiting.

**********

The cab dropped her off late. She rolled her suitcase down the gravel side path, hoodie pulled over one side of her face. No one greeted her at the gate.

Weird.

Inside, the air felt different. Too clean. Too still.

Jubilee dragged her suitcase into the main hall, dropped it by the stairs, and caught the end of a conversation she wasn’t meant to hear.

“…he shouldn’t even be here if he can’t keep it in check—”

She turned. A pair of juniors passed by, eyes wide, posture small. She didn’t stop them. They stopped themselves.

She didn’t yell. Just smiled. “That something you wanted to say louder?”

The taller one stammered. The shorter one looked at his shoes.

Jubilee folded her arms. “I’ve set fires bigger than your GPA. Want to go again?”

They shook their heads. Scurried off.

She watched them vanish down the west wing hall, then sighed.

Later that night, she found John on the roof.

He wasn’t looking at the stars. Just the chimney.

She didn’t speak. Just sat down beside him, legs swinging over the edge.

“It’s quiet,” she said.

“Too quiet,” he muttered.

“Feels like everyone’s holding their breath.”

He nodded. “That’s the part before the fire.”

She looked at him. Carefully. Then leaned her head on his shoulder.

Not heavy. Just there.

Present.

John didn’t move. Didn’t lean back. But he didn’t pull away either.

And when she said, “I missed this place when I was gone,”

He replied, “I didn’t.”

**********

The courtyard was empty except for moonlight and one sullen bench. John sat at the far edge of it, elbows on knees, thumb running along the seam of his jeans.

The lighter was gone.

He hadn’t realized how often he touched it until it wasn’t there. The scrape of shoes on gravel reached him before the voice did.

“You’re not supposed to be out here.”

John didn’t turn.

“Neither are you.”

Bobby stood a few paces back. Hood half-up, frost coiling subtly at his collar.

“You always this good at following rules?” John asked.

“Not lately.”

Silence.

“You been reading about me?” John asked. “Or just listening to what Rogue says?”

“I don’t need anyone to tell me who you are.”

“That’s cute,” John muttered. “Because I’m starting to think you’ve got no idea.”

Bobby stepped closer. Too close.

John didn’t move.

“You think I’m scared of you,” Bobby said.

“No,” John replied calmly. “I think you’re scared of you. When you’re near me.”

That hit. Bobby’s breath clouded.

The frost crept along the ground—slow at first, then fast, seizing the grass in pale fingers, stretching up the legs of the bench. John watched it spread to the armrest beside him. Still didn’t move.

Bobby clenched his fists. A crack shot through the center slat of the bench.

Loud.

Sharp.

John didn’t flinch. “Feel better?” he asked.

Bobby didn’t answer. Just turned. Walked away into the fog his own breath had made.

John sat still. The ice didn’t melt.

Not yet.

Chapter 14

The weights clinked in steady rhythm. Metal. Breath. Floorboard. John moved through reps like someone trying to shut the world out with motion.

He didn’t wear earbuds. The silence was the soundtrack.

So when the door creaked open behind him, he heard it. Didn’t stop lifting. Didn’t look. But the footsteps said enough.

Bobby.

He walked in like someone who didn’t quite know how to walk into a room anymore. Stopped five feet away from the bench. Watched. Then he finally said something. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

John kept curling the bar. No answer.

Bobby waited until the set was done. “I mean, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

John stood slowly. Towel over one shoulder. Not winded. “You didn’t.”

Bobby shifted. “The ice. It just—happened.”

“That’s the problem.”

Bobby stepped forward. “I’m trying to be honest here.”

“I know,” John said calmly. “And that’s why I’m not torching you right now.”

Bobby cracked a faint, humorless smile. “So… what do you want me to say?”

John turned fully now. Looked him in the eye. “I don’t need you to say sorry. I need you to stop treating me like something that might explode.”

Bobby opened his mouth. Closed it. Then nodded, just once. And left.

John picked up the bar again. Didn’t flinch as the weight settled into his palms.

***********

Peter’s office always smelled like clean wood and old paper. John sat in the same chair, back slightly slouched, eyes somewhere between the window and the floor.

Peter didn’t say anything at first. Just opened the folder. Didn’t write.

John reached for his sleeve. Pushed it up, slow. The scar was high up, along the inner bicep—thin, pale, a warped crescent. Not shaped like a burn. Shaped like pressure. Compression.

Peter looked. Didn’t lean in. Didn’t flinch.

“They put it out with foam,” John said quietly. “But it wouldn’t stop.”

Peter waited.

“It was during one of the tests. One of the… recordings. They didn’t like how long I held the flame. They said I was pushing beyond tolerance. That I was ‘uncooperative.’”

Peter didn’t move.

John looked at the scar again. Not his own arm, for a second. Not his own voice.

“They shut it down with a gas line. Same one they used for flare suppression. Burned under the flame. Took skin with it.”

Peter finally spoke. “Do you remember what you were trying to do?”

John’s jaw tightened. “Yeah.” He looked up. “Nothing.”

The word landed like a drop in an empty well.

“I wasn’t fighting,” John added. “I wasn’t even angry.”

Peter nodded, just slightly. “You didn’t start that fire.”

“No,” John said. “But I let it spread.”

Silence.

Peter still didn’t write anything. He just nodded once more. And said, “That’s what happens when they build the room to hold fire—but not the person.”

John looked away. But didn’t pull the sleeve back down.

**********

The security alert came in coded. One of Storm’s staff forwarded the access request through internal channels. Unknown visitor. Private clearance request. Former Trask contractor.

The name was innocuous. James Decker.

She didn’t recognize it. That didn’t mean anything.

She met him in the east conference room—door closed, blinds drawn. He stood when she entered. Tall, thin, dressed too carefully to be at ease.

He held no briefcase. Just a folder and a plain black thermos.

Storm remained standing. “You’re trespassing,” she said without malice.

“I didn’t step onto the grounds until someone buzzed me in.”

“Technicalities won’t protect you here.”

He nodded. “Didn’t come for protection.”

“Then what did you come for?”

He set the folder on the table. Didn’t open it. “Three years ago, I was on a team designing combustion countermeasures.”

Storm blinked slowly. He continued. “It was part of the Sentinel rebuild. Fourth-wave internal resistants. They wanted fire suppression from the inside. Not just armor. Absorption. Control.”

“Specific to pyrokinesis?”

He nodded.

“They wanted replication. Baseline ability. Controlled fire without the erratic personality.”

Her fingers curled slightly on the chair back. “I didn’t ask where the samples came from,” he said. “I didn’t have to.”

Storm watched him carefully. “Prove it.”

He opened the folder. Inside: one memo. Redacted. Scanned from a physical page.

Her eyes moved quickly. Then stopped.

Line 8 read “Secondary tissue suggests natural immunoresponse to flame. Viable sequencing candidate: A-13 ‘Torchbone.’”

Storm exhaled slowly. She knew that name. A nickname. Given by staff. Coded into files. One of the few identifiers used internally when they didn’t want to write “Allerdyce.”

The man across from her didn’t flinch.

“Why now?” she asked.

He swallowed. “Because they’ve got others now. But none of them hold the spark like he did.”

Storm’s voice dropped half an octave. “Say that again.”

He didn’t. But he didn’t need to.

She already knew what it meant.

**********

It wasn’t even subtle. The lounge was half full—end-of-day snacks, hushed gossip, the smell of coffee burned too long on the hot plate.

John stepped in for water. He wasn’t trying to eavesdrop.

“…I’m just saying, maybe don’t store the flammable guy near the boiler room,” someone said with a snicker.

John’s eyes moved slowly toward the voice. One of the sophomore boys. Trying to be clever. Trying to impress the girl across from him, who just looked annoyed.

John said nothing. He didn’t turn around. Didn’t engage. Just walked to the water cooler.

Then—“You afraid of fire?” Rahne said behind him.

Not loud. Not soft.

The boy blinked. Rahne was seated sideways in the armchair, book still open across her knee.

He fumbled. “It was a joke—”

“No,” she said, cutting clean through the excuse. “A joke makes someone laugh. That was a test to see if anyone would stop you.”

The girl beside him looked away, embarrassed. The boy didn’t answer.

Rahne didn’t raise her voice. Didn’t glare. Just closed the book gently. “Every time you say something like that,” she said, “you tell people what side you’re on.”

Then she stood. Walked past John like nothing had happened.

Later, he found her on the back lawn—bare feet in the grass, shoes in one hand.

He approached, unsure what to say. “You didn’t have to do that,” he said finally.

Rahne shrugged. “Didn’t think. Just did.”

He paused. “Why?”

She looked at him then. Simple. “You’re still here.”

He didn’t know what to say to that. So he sat down next to her. Didn’t speak for the rest of the hour.

**********

The door to his room was unlocked. He hadn’t left it that way.

John paused. Listened. No footsteps. No creak.

Nothing.

He pushed the door open slowly. Everything was as he’d left it. Almost.

The lighter sat in the middle of his bed. Placed carefully. Not tossed. Not forgotten. No note. No scorch mark.

Just the Zippo.

Silver. Closed.

He looked toward the window—locked. Then toward the hallway—empty.

No one. No sound.

He stepped in. Closed the door behind him. Crossed to the bed. Picked it up.

It was warm. Not pocket-warm. Not room-warm. Used warm.

His thumb brushed the lid. Didn’t flip it open. Didn’t spark it.

Not yet.

He sat down, lighter still in hand. And stared at the flame that wasn’t there.

Yet.

Chapter 15

Storm didn’t summon him to her office. She found him. Second floor hallway, just outside the old language labs, where the wallpaper still peeled faintly near the vents. She didn’t raise her voice. Just said, “Walk with me.”

So he did.

They didn’t speak until they reached her office. She didn’t sit. He didn’t either.

Storm folded her arms, gaze steady. “I heard about the lighter.”

John didn’t flinch. She waited. He gave her nothing.

“You left it with Peter.”

He said nothing.

“And now it’s back in your possession. No one saw who returned it.”

Still nothing.

“Do you have any idea how it got there?” she asked.

“No.”

“Do you believe it was a student?”

“No.”

“Then who?”

He didn’t speak.

Storm stepped closer. “You think it was Trask.”

John looked at her now. “I think you’re asking the wrong question.”

She paused. “Then what is the question?”

He held her gaze. “What happens if it was someone in the house?”

Storm exhaled slowly. “You’re not under investigation, John. You’re under protection.”

“Feels like the same thing,” he said.

And walked out.

Peter found him on the north terrace an hour later. Didn’t ask to join him. Just stood nearby, letting the wind do most of the talking. Then he said, “What do you think it means—that someone gave it back?”

John didn’t look at him. But his fingers, buried deep in his pockets, closed around cool metal. He said only, “Depends on whether they thought I wanted it.”

**********

They were sitting by the fountain. John, cross-legged on the stone ledge, flicking a leaf through the water. Rahne beside him, biting into an apple, halfway through a story.

He laughed. Not loud. But real. It was the kind of sound Bobby hadn’t heard from him in… maybe ever.

Bobby stopped walking when he saw them. Didn’t plan to. Didn’t think. His feet turned toward them before his mouth caught up.

Rahne looked up first. Then John. The smile faded, slowly.

Bobby didn’t bother with greetings. “You two close now?” he asked.

Rahne straightened. John didn’t.

“I mean, not that it’s any of my business,” Bobby added, “but she’s usually better at picking who she trusts.”

John raised an eyebrow.

Rahne stood, apple core in hand. “I’ve got class,” she said.

John didn’t stop her. Didn’t look away from Bobby.

When she was gone, Bobby shoved his hands into his jacket pockets. “You don’t make it easy.”

“Didn’t realize I owed you easy.”

“You don’t talk to anyone for weeks, then suddenly you’re—”

“Laughing?”

Bobby blinked. “Yeah. With her.”

John finally stood. No flame. No raised voice. He just walked up close. Close enough that Bobby could feel heat off his collarbone. And said, “It was never her.”

Bobby swallowed. “What?”

John’s voice didn’t waver. “Any of it. Everything you’ve been trying not to look at—Rahne, Rogue, Jubilee—none of it was ever about them.”

He leaned in, just slightly. “It was always you.”

Bobby didn’t answer. Couldn’t. And John didn’t need him to. He just turned, hands loose at his sides. And walked back toward the building.

Leaving Bobby at the fountain, alone with the sound of running water and one truth too sharp to hold.

**********

Theresa had worked inside the system too long to believe it worked. She still knew which doors opened quietly. Which emails bounced back. Which accounts weren’t supposed to exist.

Her contact in D.C.—a junior staffer who owed her more than one favor—sent the files in a compressed folder labeled “storage maintenance.” Inside: several PDFs, each with fragments of the Trask initiative.

Names were mostly redacted. Except one. Page three of “Ignition-Beta Evaluation Protocol.”

She nearly missed it. Liaison Authorization: M. Carrow

Theresa froze.

Miriam Carrow.

She knew that name. Used to have lunch with her twice a month in a Capitol Hill bistro with bad iced tea. Back when they were both still calling it reform.

Carrow had been part of Mutant Affairs. One of the “good ones.” Spoke at panels. Smiled in photo ops. She’d been in the room the day Theresa briefed the Senate on John’s detainment. She’d nodded along.

Theresa sat back in her chair, eyes flicking across the line again. Carrow had signed the authorization. Which meant she knew where the samples came from. Knew what they were building.

And let it happen anyway.

Theresa didn’t close the file. Didn’t move. Just sat there, face unreadable, until the screen dimmed. Then she whispered—more to herself than anyone, “You lied to my face.”

**********

The gym lights hummed overhead—half-on, half-dimmed. John closed the door behind him and slid the bolt. Just in case.

He crossed to the center mat. Dropped the lighter on the floor beside him. Sat down. Cross-legged. Palms up. Breathed in. Out. Held. Waited.

He stared at his fingers like they owed him something. Like they used to respond. Used to twitch, curl, and catch.

Now—nothing.

He pressed his thumbs together. Focused.

Nothing.

Again. Harder.

Still nothing.

He gritted his teeth. Tried to remember how it felt. Not the pain. The heat. The want. But all he could hear was the hum of the lights and his own pulse under his jaw.

He opened his eyes.

Hands still empty.

Still cold.

John grabbed the lighter. Flicked it once—flame. Then slammed it down onto the mat. It bounced once. Didn’t break. Didn’t even spark.

It just lay there. Like it was waiting.

He didn’t pick it up again. Didn’t try again. He just sat, shoulders tense, jaw locked.

The flame had never been his. He just bent it.

And right now, it wanted nothing to do with him.

**********

The greenhouse was warm even at night. Humid. Quiet. Smelled like mint and wet stone. John sat on the flagstone floor beside a raised bed of lemon balm, fingers drumming against his knee.

No flame. Just thinking. Trying not to.

The door creaked behind him.

Bobby.

Not loud. Not hesitant. Just there.

John didn’t turn around.

“You know you’re not supposed to be in here,” Bobby said.

“I’m not supposed to be a lot of places,” John muttered.

Bobby stepped closer. Shoes crunching lightly on gravel. They stood in silence for a moment.

“I shouldn’t have said what I said.”

John tilted his head. “Which part?”

Bobby ran a hand through his hair, exasperated. “I don’t know what you want from me.”

“I never asked for anything.”

“That’s not true.”

John stood now. Slowly. Face unreadable in the moonlight through the glass.

“I didn’t come here to fight,” Bobby said.

“Good,” John said. “Because I’m done being your outlet.”

“That’s not fair—”

“You want me to be the reason you're confused? Fine. You want me to be the bad guy in your story? Even better. Just stop pretending like you don’t already know.”

Bobby stepped in too close. Not hostile. Just frayed. And reached forward—maybe to shove, maybe to grab, maybe to stop him.

His hand brushed John’s wrist.

Contact.

And then—

Snap. Tiny. Barely audible. Like a static shock.

Except it wasn’t.

The air crackled.

And from John’s palm, a flicker. A curl of flame. Thin. Gold-red.

Not from the lighter. Not from the pocket.

From nothing.

John jerked back—staring at his hand. Bobby stared too. Both frozen.

The fire hovered a heartbeat longer. Then vanished. Nothing left but heat.

And one small scorch mark on the cuff of Bobby’s sleeve.

Neither of them spoke. Not yet. But everything had changed.

Chapter 16

Storm didn’t pace often. But tonight, she did. Peter stood still, leaning against her bookshelf, arms crossed, folder closed.

“I need you to say it out loud,” she said.

Peter nodded once. “It wasn’t the lighter.”

Storm stopped pacing. “It wasn’t a trick. Or adrenaline. Or a bluff. It came from nothing.”

Peter nodded again. “It came from contact,” he added.

“Bobby?”

“Yes.”

Storm’s jaw tightened. Peter flipped the folder open, even though there was nothing inside it he hadn’t already memorized.

“There’s no record of spontaneous ignition in John’s file,” he said. “Not without a source. Not even at his peak.”

Storm folded her arms. “Could it be trauma re-manifesting?”

“No,” Peter said. “It’s not regression. It’s calibration.”

Storm turned to face him fully. “What?”

“His emotions are starting to bridge the gap. The restraint he built up under detainment—the separation between thought and flame—it’s eroding.”

“Because he’s safer now?” she asked.

Peter shook his head. “Because he’s not safe from himself.”

Storm didn’t move for a long time. Then she asked the question she’d been circling from the moment he walked in. “Is he a danger?”

Peter didn’t answer right away. He just looked at her. “Only if you make him afraid of what he is.”

**********

The margin of Bobby’s chemistry notes was filled with lines. Not formulas. Not doodles. Just flame. Over and over.

Crude sketches of a spark curling off a wrist.

He’d started it during third period. By sixth, he was on his third page. He tore it out. Crumpled it. Started again.

He remembered the heat. Not like before. Not the kind that froze out or burned back.

This was different.

Personal.

The flame hadn’t flared in anger. Hadn’t lashed. It had responded. To him. His hand. His voice. His presence.

He didn’t know what that meant. Didn’t know if it meant anything. But he hadn’t told anyone.

Not even Rogue. He hadn’t touched John like that since—God, high school? And even then, never without gloves. Never without hesitation.

He stared at his wrist. Where the flame had jumped. The skin wasn’t marked. Not even warm.

But he still felt it. And worse—he missed it.

**********

The document was 87 pages long. Theresa found the clause on page 72. Buried under a subsection labeled “public health biohazards,” it read, “In cases where an individual’s biological composition demonstrates innate projection capacity (thermal, kinetic, sonic, electromagnetic, etc.) without external amplifier, regulatory authorities shall retain discretionary right to track, monitor, and contain the subject in federal protective custody pending further evaluation.”

She read it twice. Then a third time. The language was precise.

Carefully detached. But the implication screamed.

This wasn’t about weaponized mutants. It was about anyone who could project force without a gadget or machine.

That meant pyrokinetics. Telekinetics. Kinetics, period.

It meant John. It meant the kid in Gen Chem who could arc lightning across a sink. It meant hundreds, if not thousands.

Theresa checked the co-sponsors. All predictable. Except one.

Miriam Carrow.

Her name wasn’t on the bill itself. But it was in the communications log—submitting revision language on behalf of the Select Bioethics Committee.

Theresa snapped a screenshot. Then another. Then opened her phone.

Storm picked up before the second ring.

“Tell me it’s not her,” Storm said without greeting.

Theresa exhaled. “It’s her.”

“I want the full text. Send it to me. I’ll escalate.”

“Who are you escalating to?” Theresa asked.

Storm’s voice dropped half an octave. “Whoever’s afraid of fire.”

**********

The lighter stayed on the desk. Unmoved. Untouched.

John passed it every time he crossed the room. Never picked it up. Not since the greenhouse.

Not since Bobby.

He hadn’t seen him since. Avoided the usual times. Ate late. Trained early. Kept his door closed.

Jubilee knocked once. He didn’t answer. She left a protein bar and a note in gold pen. “You’re not a ghost. Don’t make me haunt you.”

He kept the note. Didn’t eat the bar.

At night, he started sketching. Not flames—systems. The old fire-containment schematics they used to teach back at the Brotherhood compound.

How to curve fire along jet streams. How to snuff oxygen with a gesture. How to breathe through the burn.

He redrew each one from memory. Tried to reverse-engineer control. Not because he wanted to use it.

Because he wanted to own it.

The government had used his fire. But not his mind. And now, he would train both.

Separately.

Until the flame didn’t win.

**********

Peter didn’t look surprised when John walked in. He didn’t smile either. He just closed the book he was reading and gestured to the chair.

John sat. Silence stretched.

“I want you to help me,” John eventually said. “Without the lighter.”

Peter nodded once.

John continued, “Without Bobby. Without emotion. Just... me. What’s left of it.”

Peter tilted his head. “Why now?”

“Because it came too easily,” John said. “And it’s not supposed to be easy. Not if I’m going to live with it.”

Peter was quiet for a moment. “No external sources. No ignition tools. No contact catalysts.”

John nodded.

“You’ll fail for weeks,” Peter said.

“I know.”

“You’ll be exhausted.”

“I already am.”

Peter stood and crossed to the drawer beneath the cabinet. Pulled out a long strip of blank paper and a glass jar of chalk dust.

“Then let’s begin.”

He rolled the paper across the floor between them. Handed John a stick of chalk. “Draw how you think the flame should move.”

John looked down at his hand. Then at the blank paper. “Left to right. Never upward. It flares when I’m angry.”

Peter nodded. “Then show me anger.”

Chapter 17

The stone ledge outside the dorms was still warm from the day. John sat with his boots up, elbows resting on his knees, eyes tilted toward the quiet curve of the quad. The trees rustled faintly. Someone was laughing, far off.

Then the gravel shifted.

He didn’t look up. “You don’t have to hover,” he said.

Bobby stepped into view anyway. “Wasn’t hovering,” he said. “Just… recalculating.”

John didn’t smile. Didn’t scowl either.

Bobby sat down at the far edge of the ledge. Neither of them spoke for a moment. Then Bobby said: “I shouldn’t have touched you.”

John didn’t answer.

“I didn’t mean to cause it.”

Still nothing.

“I was angry,” Bobby admitted. “Not at you. At me. At—everything.”

“You always are,” John said finally. “But that’s not why it happened.”

Bobby looked at him. John didn’t return it.

“It didn’t start because of your hand. It started because of what was behind it.”

Bobby leaned back against the stone. “You think I’m afraid of what I feel.”

“I know you are,” John said.

Bobby swallowed. “I’m trying.”

John nodded. “Then keep trying. Just not on me.”

That landed harder than Bobby expected. He almost said something else. Didn’t.

Instead, he stood.

“Thanks for not lighting me up again,” he said, half a joke.

John finally looked at him. And said, not cruel, “I didn’t want to.”

**********

“Okay,” Jubilee said, dragging a fry through mustard, “but did you see the way Bobby looked at him this morning?”

They were sitting on the back steps of the east wing, lunch trays balanced on knees, sunshine spilling over the stonework.

“I’m serious,” Jubilee said. “It wasn’t hate. It wasn’t even regret. It was like—guilt-marinated longing.”

Rahne raised an eyebrow. “That’s a very specific flavor.”

“I bottle it,” Jubilee said. “Limited run.”

Rahne chewed her straw. “You think something happened?”

“I know something happened,” Jubilee said, leaning in. “They don’t just stop bickering. They skip steps now. They’re in the weird silence phase.”

“The dangerous one?”

“The ‘I might kiss you or kill you and even I don’t know which’ one.”

Rahne nodded sagely.

They both looked across the lawn, where John sat under the shade of a tree, scribbling in a notebook.

Bobby passed twenty feet behind him. Didn’t look. But slowed. Just a step.

Just enough.

“Oh yeah,” Rahne said. “That’s combustible.”

Jubilee reached into her bag and pulled out a glitter pen.

“What are you doing?”

“Writing down the date,” Jubilee said. “So I can say I called it when it all explodes.”

**********

It hit the airwaves just after 4 p.m.

A soft-spoken anchor on WCBS began a “special report” with muted graphics and a careful tone. By 4:08, the footage changed. Thermal surveillance. Archival footage.

A boy in a leather coat on a D.C. street. Hands raised.

Flame pouring from both palms. No caption. No warning.

Just him.

John.

Storm was in the hallway when she heard it. Turned immediately. Found the first-floor rec room. Remote in hand. Turned the screen off before the volume reached full.

She moved room to room, cutting power, one muted headline after another.

MUTANT BIOHAZARD BILL TRIGGERS DEBATE
IGNITION-BETA: FIRE CONTROL OR GOVERNMENT OVERREACH?
OLD WOUNDS, NEW LAWS: THE PYRO FILE

Theresa’s phone rang nonstop. Three different networks. A committee staffer who claimed not to know Carrow personally. A former intern who “just wanted to verify a few technical details.”

She didn’t answer any of them.

John was on the back steps when it reached him. He didn’t move. Didn’t go inside. Didn’t look for a screen.

Just sat there—jaw tight, shoulders locked—watching the light shift across the lawn like it might burn.

**********

The room Peter used for flame control was spare and windowless. A long steel table, walls painted matte grey, slate tiles set into the floor. He placed a single steel lighter in the center. Didn’t say anything.

Just nodded at it.

John stepped forward. Clicked it once. A small flame rose, quiet and controlled. He knelt beside it. Left hand braced on the tile. Right hovering near the flame.

Peter waited until the flame curved gently toward John’s hand. Then started speaking. Not loudly. Not cruelly.

Just clearly.

“Do you believe the fire responds to fear?”

John’s jaw tensed. “No.”

“Then what makes it rise?”

“Emotion.”

“Any?”

John hesitated.

Peter watched him closely. “Do you think Bobby’s a weakness?”

The flame twitched. Not much. But enough.

John closed his fingers around it—without touching. Steady. “Next question,” he said.

Peter obliged. “Do you want your powers back, or do you want to be safe?”

John looked at him. The flame flared. But didn’t shake. “I want to stop pretending I have to choose.”

Peter nodded once. The session ended an hour later.

The flame never once went out.

**********

Storm poured the tea herself. Didn’t ask if he wanted any. Didn’t ask if he wanted to be there. Just handed him the mug and sat.

John held it. Didn’t drink.

“The bill will pass,” she said. No preamble. No soft lead-in.

John didn’t react.

“It won’t pass easily,” she added. “But it will pass. Public fear is louder than private reason.”

John looked down at the tea. Still steaming. Still untouched.

“They’re using your face,” Storm said. “Not your name. Not officially. But the footage—they chose it on purpose.”

He nodded once. Storm leaned forward slightly.

“You will be categorized. Quietly. In the background. You’ll be placed on a list, marked for ‘non-civilian potential engagement.’ That label will follow you for the rest of your life.”

Still, no reaction. Storm softened just slightly.

“You’re not a danger, John.”

“I know,” he said.

“But they’ll pretend you are.”

“I know that too.”

Storm paused. “Do you want to know how long you have?”

John finally looked at her. Not afraid. Not angry. Just steady.

“No,” he said. “Just tell me what I’m allowed to burn.”

Storm didn’t answer right away. “Only what they’ll notice.”

Chapter 18

The trail was outlined in smooth flagstones. Fifteen meters. From the south greenhouse to the reflecting pool.

No obstacles. No turns. Just a straight walk.

The rules were posted at the start.

NO SPEAKING.
NO POWERS.
COMPLETE TOGETHER.

John read them twice. Didn’t ask why. Didn’t need to.

Peter stood near the west arbor, clipboard under his arm, not watching too closely. Just enough.

Bobby arrived second. Didn’t say anything. Didn’t make eye contact.

Peter gave a quiet nod. They stepped onto the first stone. The walk began.

Ten steps in, the air between them felt heavier than the sun overhead. Not cold. Not hot. Just tense.

Like one wrong word would detonate something they couldn’t see.

Bobby stayed half a pace behind. John didn’t look over. Not until a breeze kicked up, pulling at the sleeve of Bobby’s jacket. And John’s arm flinched.

A reflex. Nothing more. But the faintest wisp of heat curled off his wrist.

Peter made a mark on the clipboard. Neither of them stopped walking. But the pace slowed.

By the final ten stones, their feet were nearly in sync.

Not touching. Not brushing. But in rhythm. Like they always had been.

Before everything. Before all of this.

They reached the final stone. Stopped. Waited.

Peter nodded once. They stepped off. Still no words.

Not until much later.

Not yet.

**********

John didn’t head back to the dorms right away. He cut around the edge of the greenhouse, where the shade clung low and the gravel muffled his steps.

The quiet felt earned. Not peaceful. Just less loud.

He heard Bobby’s footfalls half a minute before he spoke. Didn’t turn. Didn’t speed up.

Bobby fell into step beside him. They walked like that for a few yards. Then Bobby said, lowly, “Did you ever stop?”

John kept his eyes forward. Didn’t ask stop what. Didn’t need to. He knew.

He thought about lying. For a second. Then didn’t. “No.”

One word. Bare. Unforgiving. True.

Bobby exhaled. Sharp. Not relief. Not pain. Just the pressure release of something that had been locked up too long.

John finally glanced sideways. Bobby wasn’t looking at him. Just ahead.

Just breathing.

“Does that make me weak?” Bobby asked.

“No,” John said.

But he didn’t say what it did make him. And Bobby didn’t ask again.

They reached the stone archway behind the rose beds. Paused there. Then split off without another word.

No explosion. Just the slow rise of something hot and impossible between them.

Waiting.

**********

Theresa threw the file folder on the dining room table so hard it slid halfway across to Peter. “Found your fire trail,” she said.

Peter caught the edge with two fingers. Opened it slowly.

“Holy hell,” Jubilee muttered, dropping into the seat next to him. “They didn’t even redact it properly.”

Storm joined them a moment later. Read the top sheet. Paused. Then said, “Carrow signed the transfer herself?”

Theresa nodded. “Routed through a private lab in Fairfax. Tied to a shell contractor—‘Thurmond Analytics.’ Guess who sits on their board.”

Peter flipped to the authorization memo. The document was dry, clinical. But the sentence was clear.

Genetic material previously categorized under Delta-7 (ignition) reassigned to adaptive bioweapon testing, per Senatorial override clause. Signature: M. Carrow.

Storm’s expression didn’t change. But her hand closed slowly into a fist.

Jubilee pulled out her phone. “Is this public yet?”

“No,” Theresa said.

“Now it is,” Jubilee replied, already tapping.

She posted the scanned cover sheet with no caption. Just a flame emoji. And tagged the Mutant Legal Defense Fund.

By dinner, it had 30,000 retweets. By midnight, it would hit the morning news cycle.

Storm turned to Peter. “Build a wall around him,” she said.

“Physical or legal?”

“Both.”

**********

Peter always kept two thermometers in his office. One digital. One analog. He preferred the analog. Slower, but harder to trick.

Today, both agreed. John’s baseline temperature had shifted again.

+0.6°C.

Not enough to be dangerous. But enough to be notable.

“Sit still,” Peter said.

John raised an eyebrow. “I am still.”

“Still-er.”

John rolled his eyes but didn’t move. Peter moved around him, slow, methodical, adjusting the handheld infrared scanner.

No current fire. No lighter. No ambient heat.

Just… residual warmth.

Centered on the chest. Traced faintly up the neck. Not like a fever. Like something waiting to surface.

Peter adjusted a dial. Then asked casually, “Did you see Bobby today?”

John shrugged. “He was there.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

John didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. The scanner beeped.

+0.2°C.

Peter clicked it off. Made a note. Thermal Drift: Presence-Responsive. Subject unaware. Emotional contact not required.

Later, in a meeting with Storm, he relayed it plainly, “The fire isn’t dormant anymore. It’s reading stimuli.”

Storm folded her arms. “Is it danger?”

“No,” Peter said. “It’s anticipation.”

**********

The notebook wasn’t fancy. Spiral-bound, half-filled with sketches and heat pattern exercises.

John flipped to the last blank page. Stared at it. Picked up a pen. Didn’t think.

Just wrote.

I still feel it. Even when you’re not there. Especially then.

I don’t know what’s worse—when I miss you, or when I don’t. You always wanted me to say it. But you never really wanted to hear it.

So here’s me, saying it, on paper that won’t survive the night.

I didn’t stop. I couldn’t. I won’t.

And I don’t know what that makes me.

But it’s true.

He stared at the words. Blinked once. Then folded the page carefully.

Once.

Twice.

He reached into the drawer, pulled out the little matchbook Jubilee had slipped into his bag as a joke two weeks ago.

“Don’t get rusty,” she’d scrawled in gold ink.

He struck a match. Held the flame steady at the corner of the page. Watched it take. Watched it curl.

Watched the ink disappear under the black. Didn’t stop it. Didn’t flinch.

When the last scrap turned to ash, he dropped it into the ceramic tray on his nightstand. Sat back. Said nothing.

The room stayed dark. But his hands were warm.

Chapter 19

Theresa didn’t sleep. Neither did anyone on her team. The injunction hit the circuit court just after 7 a.m.

Temporary Restraining Order No. 4487-B: Detainment-Based Genetic Material Dispute
Target: Federal Government of the United States
Subject: Mutant Identification “Pyro” (John Allerdyce)

By 8:00, the headlines began. By 8:10, so did the panels.

The word “precedent” got tossed around like confetti. So did “danger,” “consent,” and “legacy trauma.”

Jubilee was in the rec lounge when the footage aired again. Not the Brotherhood bombings this time—just grainy thermal cam from five years ago. John alone in a containment room. Shoulders heaving. Palms alight.

“Unclear what provoked the subject,” the anchor said.

Jubilee stood up. Unplugged the television. Then threw her soda can through it for good measure.

“I’ll clean it later,” she muttered, walking out.

Across campus, Peter flipped through the filed brief. Thirty-two pages of citations, affidavits, blood-chain logistics.

The science didn’t matter. The violation did.

Upstairs, John read only the first page. Then folded it shut. Didn’t tear it. Didn’t burn it.

Just placed it on the edge of his desk. And sat beside it.

Still.

**********

The show opened with classical music and a neutral backdrop. Civic Compass, with Dean Laramie. The kind of segment people half-watched over coffee.

Senator Miriam Carrow sat poised in a navy blazer. No red. No flag pin. No visible emotion.

Dean smiled too broadly. “We’re here today to discuss SR-283—known informally as the Biohazard Safeguard Clause.”

Carrow folded her hands. “All due respect,” she said, “I think it’s time we stopped pretending that trauma absolves volatility.”

Dean leaned forward. “And you’re referring to...?”

“I’m not referring to anyone,” Carrow said smoothly. “But the nation has a right to safety. And when genetically volatile individuals—some of whom were once deemed unstable even by Charles Xavier himself—are later granted sanctuary rather than oversight, that safety is at risk.”

She let that sit. Didn’t blink. Didn’t clarify.

Dean cleared his throat. “You’re saying Xavier himself—”

“I’m not saying anything,” Carrow smiled. “The reports exist. Some subjects were designated as potential threats. That’s a matter of record.”

Then the word came. “Containment,” she said. “This clause is about measured, compassionate containment.”

The graphic on screen blurred into archival footage. A fire-wreathed silhouette. Not named.

But unmistakable.

John, ten years younger, head bowed, hands open. Flame licking the edges of the frame.

Dean nodded somberly. “Well. We’ll leave viewers to draw their own conclusions.”

**********

The gym was mostly empty by dusk. Bobby had just finished a cooldown set when the voice caught him off guard.

“Mr. Drake? Care to comment on SR-283?”

He turned—towel slung over his neck, damp curls stuck to his forehead. The woman held a press badge. Smiled like it was harmless. “It’s your former teammate they’re talking about, isn’t it? The firestarter?”

Bobby didn’t answer.

She tried again. “Do you think Senator Carrow’s concerns are fair?”

Still nothing.

He stepped past her without a word.

Later, in the dorm stairwell, he stood still for a long time. Just thinking. Not pacing. Not texting.

Just breathing.

By midnight, he opened his laptop. Typed one paragraph. Read it once. Didn’t revise.

Then hit send.

It landed in the journalist’s inbox at 12:04 a.m.

Dangerous is what you call someone you don’t understand. He’s not that. I understand him. —Robert Drake

He didn’t tell anyone. Didn’t repost it. Didn’t even save a copy.

But by sunrise, it was everywhere.

**********

The first car rolled up just after 9:00 a.m. A couple stood outside it, holding a posterboard with shaky lettering. NOT IN OUR BACKYARD.

By 10:00, there were six more. By noon, twenty.

Some just parked. Filming. Waiting for something to happen.

Storm called a meeting in the Situation Room. “We stay calm,” she said. “We stay smart.”

The staff nodded. “You think they’re dangerous?” someone asked.

“No,” she said. “I think they’re scared. Which makes them dangerous.”

Outside, a younger man with a camera zoomed in on the front gate. “This is the place,” he said into the mic. “Where they’re hiding him.”

He didn’t say John’s name. He didn’t have to.

Inside the dorms, the students were kept back from the windows. Bobby stood by the perimeter fence. Not patrolling.

Just standing. Watching. Waiting.

Upstairs, John sat in the west tower room—an unused reading nook with a full view of the drive. He watched them hold signs. Watched someone try to climb the first fence and get buzzed back by the warning system.

Didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink.

Peter entered silently behind him. “You okay?”

“I don’t know what okay is.”

Peter nodded once. “That’s fair.”

“They think I’m going to light it all up,” John said softly.

Peter hesitated. “Are you?”

John turned to look at him. Flat. Dry. “No.”

Then turned back to the window. “But I’m watching.”

**********

The office smelled like chamomile tea and old books. Peter didn’t have a clipboard today. Didn’t carry a file. He just sat.

John didn’t speak first. Didn’t fidget. Didn’t ask what they were working on.

Peter leaned back, hands resting on his knees. “What would you say,” he asked quietly, “if the people outside were listening?”

John stared at the floor. Not angry. Not even tired.

Just focused.

“Nothing they’d believe.”

Peter didn’t react.

John exhaled. “But maybe something they’d remember.”

Peter waited.

John sat forward, elbows on knees, voice low but steady. “I didn’t choose fire. It chose me. I didn’t set those buildings on fire for fun. I did it because I was scared, and someone told me I should be. I’ve been locked in rooms colder than this country’s ever admitted exists. I’ve had my blood taken more times than I’ve been thanked. And all I’ve ever wanted—ever—is to stop running. So if they’re watching? If they’re scared? Let them be. I’m not going anywhere. I still burn. But I’m not going to burn them.”

Peter didn’t write it down. Didn’t need to.

It was already permanent.

Chapter 20

The visitor list was tight. But not tight enough.

The woman arrived during the late-afternoon lull, wearing heels too clean and a scarf that matched the Xavier Foundation’s donor colors. Introduced herself to the front desk as Miss Carol Larkins, Westchester Mutual Trust. Said she was here to “observe campus health accommodations.”

The receptionist checked the list. Found nothing.

The woman smiled. “Must’ve been a clerical error.”

Twenty minutes later, she was in the east wing corridor, just outside the student wellness center, notebook in hand.

Jubilee passed her without suspicion. They exchanged small talk.

The woman asked, “Do you feel safe with him still here?”

Jubilee, confused, asked, “With who?”

But the woman didn’t clarify.

When Storm found her, the notebook was already half full. “I think it’s time you left,” Storm said, tone like steel behind silk.

The woman didn’t argue. Just offered a serene nod. On her way out, she said lightly, “You might want to update your privacy protocols. That wellness intake file’s got a few things I didn’t expect to find.”

Storm didn’t react outwardly. Didn’t need to. Peter was called. Security was reviewed.

But it was already too late.

At 6:12 p.m., an article titled “Fire and Fury: Inside the Mind of Xavier’s Most Dangerous Pupil” was posted to an alt-politics blog with over 100,000 subscribers.

The fourth paragraph quoted a phrase from John’s sealed intake form verbatim. “Patient reports chronic nightmares of confinement and self-immolation, accompanied by feelings of emotional detachment from past romantic partners.”

No attribution. No citation. But enough.

By morning, it had already spread to three news aggregates. Then Reddit. Then Discord servers.

The headline mutated.

Burn Victim or Threat?
Pyro’s Mind: Trauma or Tactic?
Xavier Files Leaked in Firestarter Case

Storm called an emergency all-staff briefing. Jubilee slammed the printed blog post on the conference table.

“They quoted therapy,” she said. “That’s not journalism. That’s assault.”

Peter sat still. His eyes didn’t move from the screen.

“Encrypted files?” Storm asked.

“Local only. Closed system.”

“But if they pulled from the intake form…”

Peter nodded slowly. “Then someone either intercepted it from transfer… or had access.”

A quiet beat passed. Storm’s voice dropped lower. “Inside the MLD?”

Peter didn’t answer directly. But his fingers were pressed tight around the base of his mug.

Across campus, students whispered. Most didn’t know what “self-immolation” meant. The ones who did were quieter.

In his dorm, John stared at the article on Jubilee’s cracked iPad. Didn’t blink. Didn’t speak. Didn’t turn away.

Peter found him later in the hallway. “You saw it?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.”

Peter waited, and John added, “Wasn’t a lie, though.”

“No,” Peter said. “But it wasn’t theirs to print.”

John’s jaw clenched once. Then he walked away.

**********

Storm barely looked up when Bobby entered. He didn’t knock. Didn’t ask. Just shut the door behind him hard enough to rattle the coat hook.

“You let someone in,” he snapped.

Storm closed the folder on her desk. “I didn’t.”

“Then who the hell did?”

“We’re working on that.”

“Not fast enough,” Bobby said. He was pacing now.

Storm watched him carefully, like she was observing a low-pressure front turning volatile.

“This wasn’t just a breach,” Bobby continued. “This was him. Something he said in therapy. That’s supposed to be the one safe place.”

“I agree.”

“Do you?”

“Yes.”

“Then why does it feel like no one’s doing anything?”

Storm stood slowly. Moved to the window. Waited.

Bobby stopped pacing. Ran a hand through his hair. Lowered his voice. “He’s not sleeping. He’s not eating. He’s not talking. And he won’t even look at me.”

A pause.

Then softer, “I used to know how to make it better. Not fix it. Just... show up. Be near. That used to be enough.”

Storm turned. Finally. “He still lets you near,” she said.

“Not like before.”

“No. Not like before. Like now. When it counts.”

Bobby’s shoulders slumped. “I never stopped caring.”

Storm raised an eyebrow. “Who said you did?”

He didn’t answer. She stepped closer.

“He knows, Bobby.”

“How?”

“He watches the way you watch him.”

Another beat passed before Storm spoke again.

“Fuel's not weakness,” she said. “It’s what fire needs. But don’t smother it trying to keep it safe. That’s not love. That’s fear.”

**********

The observatory lights were dimmed. No telescope tonight. Just glass, and shadow, and one body held rigid against the sky.

Storm opened the door softly. John didn’t look at her.

“You here to calm me down?” he asked.

“No,” Storm said. “I’m here to stand still.”

He exhaled. Almost laughed. Almost. “What’s the point of this place if it’s just a prettier cage?”

Storm stepped inside. Closed the door behind her. “You’re not in a cage.”

“No?” He turned now. Eyes sharp. “Because someone just found a way to make my nightmares clickable.”

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t deny. “I know.”

“And?”

“And it’s not okay.”

They stood like that for a moment. Two elements in balance.

“I’m not gonna torch the school,” John said, dry.

“I never thought you would.”

“But I wanted to.”

Storm nodded once. “Of course you did.”

He blinked. That surprised him. “Why aren’t you telling me to breathe through it, or find my center, or... whatever Professor used to say?”

“Because you’re not twelve anymore,” she said. “You don’t need to be told how to survive. You already did that. Now you just need space to feel it.”

John looked away. His voice was thinner when he spoke. “What if that’s worse?”

Storm walked to the far pane of glass. Pressed her fingers lightly to it. “Then we stay right here. In the burn. Until it’s just warmth again.”

**********

The hallway was dark. Quiet. The kind of quiet that felt like breath held too long.

John reached his door. Paused. There was something on the floor—just beneath the frame.

Not a file. Not a warning. Just paper. Folded once. No name.

But the handwriting was the giveaway. Slanted, a little rushed.

He knelt. Picked it up. Unfolded it slowly, like it might tear.

The message was short. Not poetic. Just honest.

I don’t know how to talk to you when it feels like you’re on fire. But I’m trying. And if you need me to say it instead of just mean it, I will. I never stopped either. I just got quieter.

John stared at it. The way the ink pooled slightly at the end of a word. The way the last line slanted like the writer couldn’t stay steady.

He didn’t cry. Didn’t smile. Didn’t react at all, for a long minute. Then he folded it again.

Just once. Slid it into the drawer beside his bed. Closed it softly.

And left it there.

Chapter 21

The lab was stripped down. No students. No observers. Just Peter, the terminal, a single ceramic ignition plate—and John.

He stepped through the door like he belonged there. No hesitation. No hesitation at all.

Peter didn’t speak at first. Just keyed in the calibration: ambient controls set to neutral, no thermal interference, spark point isolated and shielded.

John glanced at the readout. “Looks clean,” he said.

Peter nodded. “You don’t have to do this today.”

“I want to.”

Peter studied his face—jaw set, eyes steady, hands loose. “Okay.”

He stepped aside. John approached the plate. A small steel rod rested in its center, fitted with a graphite striker.

He knelt beside it. No gloves. No gear. Just him and the air, and that old pulse in his chest, the one that used to hit like thunder every time someone asked him to perform.

But this time—no audience.

Just one quiet man with a clipboard who hadn’t written a single word yet. John struck the rod.

A flick. A crack. A spark. It danced for half a second. And he caught it. Like a breath held midair. Like a string between his fingers.

The flame curled upward, slow and thin, hovering. Alive. Waiting.

John didn’t smirk. Didn’t raise an eyebrow. He just said, softly, “Now watch.”

The flame hung in the air like breath caught between teeth. It wasn’t bright. It wasn’t hot. Just soft.

Controlled. Alive.

John lifted his fingers—index and middle—like a conductor cueing a string section. The flame followed. Not jerking, not flaring. It trailed after him in a ribbon-thin line. He swept left, curved up, paused—a stroke. Then another. The air shimmered faintly as the heat bent through it.

Peter didn’t blink. John’s brow furrowed slightly in concentration. Each movement was precise. Delicate. And then, it was there.

Three letters. Floating. Flickering.

T
R
Y

Not a command. Not a threat. Just a word. One that meant keep going. That meant I am.

The fire held for two seconds. Maybe three. Then vanished like it had never been there.

John let his hand fall to his side. Exhaled.

Peter stepped forward, slowly. Didn’t smile. Didn’t clap. Just met his eyes and said, quiet and certain, “You are.”

John looked at him. And for once, didn’t look away.

**********

The hallway outside the observation lab was quiet. Storm stood alone behind the one-way glass, arms crossed—not out of skepticism, but restraint. She didn’t bring a file. Didn’t carry her comm. Just watched.

The flicker came first. A thin line of heat. She could see Peter’s posture—still, reverent, alert.

And then: the fire curved. Not spiraled, not surged. Just... traced.

Her breath caught as the letters formed.

T
R
Y

She didn’t react aloud. Didn’t exclaim. But her chin lifted slightly, like something inside her had just stood up straighter.

The letters vanished. The air settled. Inside, John stepped back, fireless again.

Peter nodded. Storm smiled—small, tight, private. Then turned from the glass.

And walked down the corridor with her shoulders a little lighter.

**********

The sun had just started to set. The gravel path behind the lab crunched under John’s steps as he paced it slowly, back and forth, like heat winding down from a boil.

No hoodie. No gloves. Just him, bare-armed, warm-skinned, steady-breathing.

He heard the approach before he saw it. Footsteps. Then—“Hey.”

John didn’t turn. Didn’t stop pacing.

“Just saw Peter,” Bobby said. “He looked... stunned.”

“Good stunned?”

“Yeah.”

John nodded once. Kept walking.

Bobby scratched the back of his neck. “I, uh... I was gonna text but—texts are dumb for this, and I figured you’d delete it anyway, so...”

John stopped. Turned. Brows lifted. “Spit it out, Drake.”

Bobby’s face went pink. Not red. Not flushed. Just warm. “I’m still in love with you.”

Silence.

No rush of wind. No flame. Just that.

John blinked. Didn’t smile. Didn’t run. Didn’t burn.

Bobby stood frozen, like the sentence had left him exposed.

John looked at him for a long moment. Then—quietly, he said, “You sure?”

Bobby exhaled, half a laugh. “I’ve had a decade to be sure.”

John didn’t speak for a long moment. The sun kept dipping behind the trees. The gravel path was turning gold. Then, he stepped forward.

Not fast. Just certain. He reached for Bobby’s hand—pale, cold fingers always half-tensed—and pulled it up, slowly.

No squeeze. No flare. Just contact.

He pressed Bobby’s palm gently to the center of his chest. Right where the fire used to hide. Right where it still lived.

It was warm. Not blistering. Not warning. Just there.

Bobby didn’t pull away. Didn’t breathe. Didn’t need to.

John looked him dead in the eye. And said, quietly, “I know.”

Not a dodge. Not a refusal. Just something halfway between a promise and a pause.

Then he let go. Turned back toward the mansion. And walked.

Slow. Unhurried. Leaving behind no trail.

No burn.

Just warmth in the space between them.

Chapter 22

The Blackbird touched down before breakfast. No ceremony. No greeting party.

Just Theresa, stepping onto the tarmac with a plain manila envelope pressed to her chest like it might catch fire.

Hank met her halfway down the runway. Storm waited by the hangar. Peter joined them last, eyes already scanning for whatever was about to break.

They didn’t go to the staff conference room. Too big. Too echoing. They chose Hank’s lab, quiet and sealed, windows set to opaque.

Theresa laid the envelope flat on the table. No one moved to open it. Finally, she said, “There’s a program. It’s real. It’s worse than we thought.”

She looked at Storm. Then at Peter. Last, at Hank. “His name’s in it. Not implied. Printed.”

Peter’s shoulders went rigid. Hank opened the file. Three pages in, he cursed under his breath.

The room went silent.

Three more pages in, Peter stepped back, pinching the bridge of his nose. Storm didn’t speak at all.

Then came the knock. Not a hard one. Just two sharp raps against the lab’s glass door.

Everyone turned, and saw her.

Blue skin. Yellow eyes. No disguise.

Raven.

She didn’t wait to be invited in. Just stepped through the threshold like the air owed her space.

Storm’s jaw tightened. Hank stood fully upright. Peter’s voice was the first to break the tension. “You’re late.”

“I’m here,” Raven said. Her eyes dropped to the folder on the table. “You got the redacted version.”

Peter narrowed his eyes. “And you?”

She smiled. Tight. Cold. “Unredacted.”

Theresa blinked. “You knew?”

“I know.” And then, to no one in particular. “Where is he?”

No one answered. But her feet were already moving.

**********

John sat on the edge of his bed. No hoodie. Just a gray T-shirt, frayed at the collar, clinging to a thin sheen of sweat he hadn’t earned yet.

The door creaked. He looked up.

Theresa stepped in first. Peter followed, handing him the file. Then both of them stepped back.

But it was Raven who lingered just inside the frame.

She didn’t speak. Didn’t cross to him. Didn’t so much as breathe loud.

John flipped the file open. The first page was government letterhead—blurred, copied, lined in redacted black.

The second: a title.

PROJECT TITAN – ELEMENTAL ADAPTATION STRATEGY
Case Study: Pyrogenic Subject J.A.
Tissue Source: AZ Detention / B-Class Housing

His hands didn’t shake. He turned the page.

Subject blood presents with remarkable stability in regard to pyrokinesis-linked proteins.
Mitochondrial variance suggests adaptation over multiple stress environments.
Genetic sequence has been preserved for use in FLARE-03 and FLARE-07 variants.
Possible non-conscious control patterns detected during high-threat exposure simulations.

John’s breath caught once. Raven didn’t move. The file kept going.

Noted: Subject did not survive full TITAN implantation trial. (See attached)
Correction: Subject was not trialed. Biological material only.
Status: Unknown. Presumed unrecovered.

Peter leaned forward slightly. “You can stop.”

John shook his head. Kept reading. Every page heavier. Every line an echo of something done to him, never with him.

By the end, his eyes were dry. His voice was low. “They made a program out of my blood.”

Still, Raven didn’t speak. But she didn’t look away.

John turned another page. Then another. Then stopped. His eyes landed on a line halfway down a paragraph:

FLARE Variant – Pattern J.A. / Flame Signature: Urban Riot Configuration

Peter exhaled sharply. John didn’t blink. He read on.

Pattern J.A. has demonstrated consistent flame volume and behavior under induced rage conditions.
Thermal signature noted for upward sweep and spiral recoil.
Codename for AI training: “Torchboy.”

Raven moved. Quickly. Her hand shot out and ripped the page from his grip. “Enough,” she hissed.

John didn’t flinch. Peter didn’t stop her. She crumpled the paper and threw it across the room. It hit the wall. Fell. Burned at the edges before extinguishing.

“They catalogued you,” she said, voice low and violent. “Like a tool. Like you were a damn flamethrower to reverse-engineer.”

“Raven—” Peter started.

“No,” she snapped. “Don’t ask me to be calm about this.”

John’s fingers flexed once. But he didn’t stand. Didn’t burn. Didn’t even blink hard.

He reached down and picked up the next page himself. Held it steady.

And turned it over.

**********

The silence stretched after Raven left. She hadn’t slammed the door. Just vanished the way she always had—like smoke breaking apart too fast to catch.

John finished the last two pages alone. Peter stood by the desk, arms crossed but loose, waiting. No pressure. No rush.

When John finally looked up, his eyes were steady. Almost dull.

“They made a weapon out of me.”

Peter didn’t correct him right away. Just moved closer. Took the seat beside the bed.

“They made a weapon.” His voice was soft. “They didn’t make you.”

John huffed. The closest thing to a laugh, but hollow. “They named it after me.”

“They named flame patterns after what they thought you were. That’s not the same.”

“It feels the same.”

Peter nodded. “I know.”

The file lay open between them. Still. Blunt. Indifferent.

John stared at the center crease. “I kept thinking if I got better, if I healed fast enough, it’d be over. But it’s still happening. They’re still using me. And I’m not even in the room.”

Peter leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “That’s what abuse does. It takes your image and runs with it. Your voice isn’t even part of the theft.” He waited. Then added, softer, “But you’re here now. And they’re not.”

John didn’t answer. But he closed the file. Set it gently on the floor.

And leaned back without a sound.

**********

The knock came five minutes later. Theresa. She didn’t step in. Just held out a flash drive.

“Last piece,” she said. “You deserve to see it. But I won’t blame you if you don’t want to.”

John took it. Closed the door. Slid the drive into his laptop. Clicked the only file.

A grainy test field came into focus—snow-dusted concrete, a grid of steel poles, drone unit at the center.

Label: TITAN_S13_TEST_18 – Pattern: J.A. – Stable

The unit hovered for two seconds. Then launched. A stream of fire erupted—narrow spiral, short burst recoil, and a rising final sweep that bloomed outward before vanishing.

Exact. Perfect. Recognizable. John had used that pattern in Boston. Twice in D.C.

He watched the video three times. No sound. No blinking. No breath.

On the fourth loop, he hit pause just as the flame reached full bloom. It looked like a hand reaching for the sky.

He didn’t move. Didn’t delete it. Didn’t save it. Just let it sit there, paused, flickering quietly in the dim room. Then leaned back.

And closed the screen.

Chapter 23

The old war room hadn’t been used for months. No lights. No tech glow. Just a long steel table and three people on edge.

Storm stood, arms folded, back rigid. Hank leaned on the table, file open in front of him. Raven sat. Casual. Unbothered. Or pretending to be.

Storm’s voice cut through the air like a wire. “How long?”

Raven raised a brow. “Since I walked in?”

“Don’t.” Storm stepped closer. “This—” she tapped the folder, “—this is what we’ve been fearing for years. You walked in holding a copy cleaner than anything the whistleblower gave us. That doesn’t happen unless you’ve been tracking it for a while. So I’ll ask again: how long?”

Raven smiled, faint and sharp. “I had a hunch. I followed it. I confirmed it last month.”

Hank frowned. “‘Last month’ doesn’t explain how you have internal notes from the M-Branch. That was disbanded three years ago.”

Raven’s eyes slid to him. “And yet it’s still leaking.”

Storm didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just said, lowly. “You let him come back here thinking he was free. You knew.”

Raven didn’t flinch. “I didn’t know enough.”

Storm slammed the file shut. “That’s a lie.”

Hank’s voice was softer. But colder. “You kept this off our radar. Whatever you were chasing—whoever—you decided it wasn’t our business. Not even John’s.”

“He was safe here,” Raven said.

“Because he was stolen from.” Storm’s voice cracked once. “Because he was violated.”

Raven stood. Not defensive. Not retreating. Just... still. “If I’d told you before I had proof, you would’ve gone to war.”

Storm stepped back. “Maybe we should have.”

**********

Raven walked the east corridor like a ghost that hadn’t decided whether to haunt or move on. Students tracked her with wide eyes. Some whispered. Some ducked out of sight.

One boy—eleven, maybe twelve—watched her pass and whispered, “She used to be a hero a long time ago.”

She didn’t react. Didn’t correct him. Didn’t slow.

The walls looked the same. But the eyes in them had changed. She passed a portrait of Charles and didn’t look at it. Didn’t need to.

By the time dusk fell, the school had grown quieter—quieter in the way that old places do when they’ve started to suspect a storm is coming. She turned a corner. Saw the library door cracked open. Pushed it wider with two fingers.

He was in there. Alone. Not reading. Just sitting on the floor between the fiction stacks. Arms wrapped around his knees. Eyes on nothing. He didn’t look up. Didn’t say anything. But he’d left the door open.

So she walked in. Sat against the far wall. And waited.

**********

The air in the library had gone still. Heavy, almost—like heat caught in old wood. John didn’t shift. Didn’t raise his voice. Just asked, “How long did you know they had my blood?”

Raven didn’t pretend not to hear. She set the book down. Didn’t open it. Didn’t reach for another. Her eyes stayed on him. Yellow. Unblinking. But her mouth didn’t move. No lie. No answer. No defense. Just quiet.

John nodded once. Slow. Didn’t push. Didn’t demand more.

There was nothing else to say.

Raven stood. No rush. No explanation. She reached into her coat and pulled out a second file—thicker, heavier, stamped with a seal even Hank hadn’t seen in years.

She walked over. Didn’t hand it to him. Just placed it on the carpet, halfway between them.

“Mine’s cleaner,” she said. “Names. Codes. Lab times. You won’t like what’s in here.”

John didn’t answer. Didn’t move yet.

She stepped back. Paused by the door. Her voice was calm when she spoke again. No push. No pull. Just weight. “What are you going to do with it?”

John didn’t look up. But his fingers reached forward. Drew the file across the floor. Held it in his lap. When he finally spoke, it wasn’t for her. “I don’t know.”

Raven nodded once. Then left without a sound.