A/N: This fic takes place after Last Stand. Everything else you need to know will be revealed within the story. Enjoy!

Chapter 1

They call me Pyro.

For someone that can't remember anything about himself . . . even that name seems out of the ordinary to me, whoever I am, that is. My eyes carefully scan the room full of people that are dressed in casual clothing. There are many faces, but I am unable to put a name to any of them. Should I be able to identify these people? When my eyes come across a pair of intense blue eyes belonging to a blonde male, my head and hands start to throb. I look away, unsure of where to place my gaze. I can feel the tension in the room and that every eye is still locked firmly on me.

- Twenty Five Minutes Earlier-

Darkness surrounds me. My eyes shift under my lids as I hear a persistent rapid beeping noise that won't go away. My eyes snap open as I deeply inhale and exhale—once in that manner—like I haven't taken a breath in a very long time. After that, the rest of my breathing remains steady and normal. My head remains on the pillow as I carefully turn it to the side in the direction of the irritating noise. I blink a few times to focus properly. I glower at the machine briefly, returning my head to its original position, the joints in my neck pop.

Is there something in my nose? Moving as little as possible, I try to touch my face, but I soon realize that I am incapable of such a simple motion because I have been restrained. Is this for my protection or theirs? I want to laugh, but I'm too weak. The bonds on my wrists seem like overkill because I doubt I could walk even if I wanted to.

I stare at the ceiling because that's my only option. I don't know how much time passes before I hear footsteps—I don't think it was long, but time is of no significance to me at this moment. Immediately someone hovers over my body and points a tiny flashlight in my eyes. 'Yes, they work,' I think, annoyed. The beeping ceases, which I am very thankful for. I assume they also check my vitals and other various medical routines, but I don't care to look. Again, they hover in my field of vision blocking the ceiling, but I can see their face clearly now: female with flawless pale skin, shoulder-length brown hair and light blue eyes. I nod my head once when asked if I can hear her. She introduces herself as Dr. Moira MacTaggert and then tells me that she's going to raise the bed so that I can sit up. The faintest smile forms on my lips because my body is eager to change position. I'm not sure exactly why, but nevertheless, it feels good.

Now I can confirm that there is a tube in my nose, part of that tube rests on my chest with a piece of surgical tape to keep it secure and the rest of it disappears under the sheets. I look at my wrists; nothing different from what I had gathered earlier. I study my hands next; they look . . . raw, and all of my fingers feel stiff. There are IVs attached to my right arm. I am able to move my leg—though it feels like sandbags are on top of it—as far as I want it to go. Typically when strapped down, you weren't given much slack or else you could strangle someone with the restraint. Why would I think of something like that? Was I capable of killing someone or was it just a logical thought? I consider the leg freedom as a good sign: only mental patients needed all limbs tied down. I guess I can cross that off my list; however, I'm going to discard that conclusion; maybe I'm wrong and . . . I am psychotic. My list just keeps getting bigger and bigger, doesn't it?

I look around the room. To describe it in one word: plain, besides medical equipment. I couldn't see outside of the room because all of the shades have been pulled down. Was it done for my privacy or so I couldn't see out? Maybe a little bit of both. The door was left open, but nothing is revealed except a wall. I look at Moira and have her follow my gaze to a small water pitcher. She inserts a straw and holds it out to me, close enough so that I can reach the straw without moving an inch. I drink the cool liquid until I thought my stomach was going to burst. It feels great to get the moisture back to my lips.

"You can step in now," she announces. After everyone—and I mean everyoneor so it seems—settles into my room, she tells them, "He hasn't spoken a word yet, but he understands."

She must've noticed the confusion on my face, so she explains, "Pyro, you've been in a comatose state for quite some time. Your frontal lobe was hit very hard at close range. Tests showed that your brain was functioning, but we weren't sure if there would be any permanent or temporary damage until you woke." She spoke softly and slowly so that I can comprehend everything being said to me.

What I learn hits me like a freight train. The tolerance I had for the audience of strangers vanishes within seconds. My heart rate must've increased because the machine starts to beep again. Remaining silent, I motion for a pad and pen. I write two words—as best I can with limited mobility—in capital letters, turning it around for the crowd to read. When no one moves, I quickly add a certain punctuation mark to make it clear I was serious, though my facial expression should coincide with what I'd jotted down. I wasn't going to be ogled at like a wild animal in a zoo! I suppose this room is my cage, for the time being, but I'm not an animal . . . Just like with every statement I make regarding myself it would be followed by a counter and this one is no different: maybe, just maybe, I was an untamable vile beast.

In the corner of my eye, I can see movement from Moira—I assume she signals them to leave. Why was my legitimate request ignored? They weren't doctors and they didn't seem happy to see me . . . but yet, she told them . . . Who are they?

I wait a few moments after the last human being exits, and I write down one question. She hesitates but keeps her gaze as she answers professionally as she should. As the answer sinks in, my gaze drifts. She waits a few moments before asking, "Do you need anything?"

I shake my head, somberly.

She did exactly what I wanted her to do without having to ask—I want, need to be alone. Closing the door behind her as she left, I hear a beep indicating the door was shut and locked successfully. I must've missed that detail when the heart monitor was screaming as if I had dropped dead earlier.

I don't know much, but this is what I do know: they call me Pyro and I have been in a coma for six years.

A/N: I came up with this story as I was in bed, restless. I haven't had a new story idea in awhile (3 AM doesn't count), so I'm excited. I'm still working on current 'in progress' stories, but I had to get this out of my head and on paper. I know sometimes I write sort of cryptically so if you are confused by anything, just ask me to clarify.

As another fellow author put it: reviews are love, so please, please leave a review.

*Check my profile periodically for story progress updates.