St. John Allerdyce. Novelist. Relaxing in a hammock in the jungles of Papua New Guinea, with zillions of insects buzzing around him. The sun has set, the darkness is just descending, and somewhere inside the little shack, a woman is singing and cooking.
The moment a match is lit, it's like sticking your tongue into a battery and feeling the electric buzz. Instantly, he can feel the direction, the distance, the size of the flame, and he can't help it. His eyes are drawn in that direction.
In the jungle, outside the little clearing where the shack and hammock are located, unmistakably a match burns. Getting up, John walks to the edge of the jungle, and narrows his eyes when he picks up the match from where it had been lodged between a tree branch. Who'd put it there? Who'd lit it?
"Only human", he hears the jungle whisper. At first, it felt like the wind. Like a collection of random whooshing sounds caressing his ear. At first, he denied it, and wrote it off as a figment of his imagination. Until it repeated. "She's only human."
Blinking in alarm, Mr Allerdyce spins around, trying to locate the source of the words. Nothing can be seen. A hand rises to his temple – has he a fever? Is he breaking up? He's spent nearly a year here in the lonely jungles, with little more than a native woman as his company. Away from civilization. Writing, writing, writing.
What now?
"You're much more", the voice comes again, and little sweat beads begin to form on his forehead even as he closes his eyes, trying to shut out the next coming words. "St John Allerdyce. Your human name."
He's starting to worry now. "Who are you?" he barely breathes, not wanting the woman inside the shack to hear the exchange. But there is no reply. After moments of tense silence, the jungle caws, like a parrot, but to John's ears it sounds like mocking laughter.
"Only human", the wind repeats, and John grits his teeth together, clamping his hands over his ears.
But the luxury of ignoring reality lasts only so long. Until John sees another flame. Feels it, moments before he actually spots it. Right at the base of the shack. Someone – or something – is trying to put the shack on fire. Only a thought – and it quenches. Only a slight blackened spot at the base of the shack shows anything occurred.
"So much more – more than human", the wind whispers again. "The things you can do – oh, I know, John. I know." The voice seems to coil around him like a constrictor, and he feels his throat tightening. "Why do you waste your power here, in the forsaken jungle? You could be a god."
"Shut up!" John snaps, teeth gritting in anger even as cold sweat runs down his back.
"Do you care for the human cow inside your shack, John? Do you care if she lives or dies?"
"Why? She's only human. She's holding you back…from your glorious destiny."
"She gave me a future…something to live for! Beyond just exploiting my power for petty crimes!"
"She's pacifying you…holding you back from using your full potential. Making you a *sheep* - instead of a *lion*! That's what humans try to do, to all of us. Forget their gilded cage, John – make your *own* future!"
At that, another small flame appears, again licking at the base of the shack. "No", John growls, and with a gesture, calls the flame arcing through the air, pulling it away from the shack, and into a little ball seething in his hand.
"Why stop me, John?" the wind whispers. "The humans want you not to use your power. That's what they try to do to all of us. Try to neuter us. Pacify us. Let them, then. Stop using your powers. Forget all about them. Do you want to be proud of your mutancy – or a lapdog for humans?"
Another flame. "No!" Again, recalled to John's hand, the ball of flame growing. "She's not *like* that!"
"I can make you into a god, John. You want to *revel* in your power, show it to all the world. I've watched you. I know. You want to use it, not hide it. You want to be a mutant, not a human. Tell me I'm wrong."
The ball of flame crackles softly.
"You can be a god among men, a king of fire. Humans can kneel before you and worship you for the power you wield. But if you want this gift of mine, you must fully dedicate yourself to the mutant cause. There can be no doubts of any lingering affection for these humans."
"No…" John closes his eyes, breathing shallowly. "Don't do this."
"This is my last flame", the shack ignites again. "And your last chance." A pause, as the flame grows, licking more at the shack. "Save her, and you choose the rest of your life as the humans' lapdog. Watch her die, and burn away the last vestiges of your weak, servile self. Be reborn in flame. It is your choice…St John Allerdyce."
As the woman inside the shack notices the fire that has grown to envelop her, she screams. Trapped within. John's face tightens, and instinctively he steps towards. Through the fire, he can see her face, crying out for help.
And he turns away. "Damn you", he curses as he turns his back to the shack, letting the flames grow behind him. He can hear every single snap and crackle of the blazing inferno. He can feel every single writhing of a flame tendril. He can feel the shack be consumed, taking his notes, his typed sheafs of paper. It's a new future, one without a typewriter and without a human woman. Without a hammock.
It takes him more than a minute to realize the hand on his shoulder. "An excellent choice", a woman's voice wind-whispers in his ear. "…Pyro."
The authorities eventually arrive to extinguish the blaze, but by then, there is little left to salvage. But there was never any trace of a corpse found in the ruins. And miles away, in a jeep, Mystique smiles to Pyro. He'll never know just how closely she had been watching him.
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