Procrastinating [Tag: Open]

[pyro]

***

"Bloody writer's block" Pyro complained, lying flat on his stomach in the middle of the living room floor, scrunched up pieces of paper littered around him. He had only been living at this old abandoned house for three months, since he had come face to face with Avalanche again, after their failed mission in Kuwait when the pyrokinetic and Blob had been captured, while their comrade had escaped. Pyro may have forgiven his long time friend, but he was still bitter after the whole ordeal, and tried as best he could to push the events to the back of his mind. It was over now. He was back in America again, and he would never set foot in a desert, or on sand for that matter (unless it happened to be the sand on a stellar beach) ever again. But things were still rather perplexing around here for Pyro. When he met up with Avalanche again, he agreed to return to the Brotherhood under Mystique's leadership, yet here he was in an abandoned house belonged to the Master of Magnetism, Magneto. He hadn't spoken to the old man, or even seen him since he was captured by the pyrokinetic and his comrades under a new team name, Freedom Force. That was probably for the best.

Tomorrow, Pyro was due to play the part of 'ghostwriter' yet again, handing over his articles to Joel so he would submit them to the New York Times. But unlike most ghostwriters, John's money ended up in Joel's hand. Though, it mattered very little to him. He made more money from pick pocketing in any case, so he didn't need the cash. Unlike Joel, who had been living on the streets for years now, and couldn't catch a break. Had he been a mutant, John might have been inclined to bring him here. Might. John had never been a sympathetic sort of person, and couldn't even pretend to show compassion for someone else's pain. The fact of the matter was, he had been in that position, he had found a way out with no help from anyone, and so could they. It built character, in Pyro's opinion. People had to learn to stand on their own two feet; they had to learn that they could rely on themselves. John sure as hell learned that lesson the hard way, and he learned it well, and he learned it fast.

It was now eleven o' clock at night, and Pyro had long since given up on the hope of getting anything written, and was now hanging off the couch upside down, head mere inches away from the ground, and legs stretched out and crossed in a relaxed pose against the wall. On the mantel piece in front of him, he had five origami boats lined up, scrawls of his own handwriting scribbled across them (that was what had become of his day's work). And clenched in his fingers, his lighter could be seen, flame flickering slightly at the top until it was brought into his left hand to balance just above the skin of his palm. "This town ain't big enough for the six o' us" he grinned; admittedly, he had been spending a little too much time in front of the television set, watching reruns of 'Friends' all day. That was probably why his brain couldn't produce a single story today. It had been swallowed up by the world of television. "Draw!" he snickered, and just like that the flame in the palm of his hand became five marble-sized balls of fire, and each shot off in the direction of the boats, four making contact, and instantly catching the paper, causing it to crinkle in the flames.

But one veered off course, zooming toward a picture displayed on the mantel piece, causing it to fall, and shatter when it hit the corner of the marble fireplace, leaving the flames to finish it off. "Whoops...".

***

TAG: Open!
WORDS: 657
NOTES: Yaaa... so I couldn't get that scene from 'Friends' with Chandler and the recliner out of my head all day