Sparks and Matches. {attn. Pyro}

[Jolt]

"Fuck off!" he growls, stalking past the teenage boy that has yet again appeared at the opening of his tent after he gave him a good shove out of the way. Will contorts his face into a rather irritated but natural scowl, striding quickly across the campgrounds without looking over his shoulder. The kid was no older than fifteen, and rumor had it that he could do something weird with his mind, but Will didn't give a shit of what the fuckin' kid could do, just as long as he stayed out of his head. Despite these rumors, he had still been following Will around like a lost puppy and sulkily demanding in a whining tone to recharge his MP3 player.

Will had instantly become the 'buddy old pal' of many when it came to being stuck out in the middle of the "goddamn-nowhere forest" where there weren't any generators or towns for miles. He obviously isn't eager for this kind of attention.

Growling, he steps easily out of the way of several other mutants that are late-risers like he is, blearily blinking in the sunlight that is sifting through the leaves. Will curses underneath his breath as he snaps the collar of his leather jacket up over his neck, even lashing out in frustration at the closest tree with his clenched fist. There's a crunch of his knuckle meeting bark, but Will doesn't seem too phased by it. He's had worse, and that much is apparent by the miniscule, healing cuts scattered far between over one side of his face. Will recently had an 'incident' with a guy that could distort his hands to knives and nearly scalped him, which would explain why his hair was now little more than a buzz cut as opposed to the almost inch long strands from yesterday.

But he didn't care.

He glares beneath his dark brows as a few mutants linger around the main campfire of the grounds, talking in undertones as if they know some kind of big secret. Will makes a 'hn' noise in the back of his throat, leaning one of his forearms against the tree trunk that he just slammed his fist into and extends his free hand out over the roots. Blue-white sparks ignite at his fingertips, his pale hand fluctuating in color as electricity courses through his nerves, while he reduces a pile of leaves to smoking ash.

Damn kids.

[Pyro]

… okay, all things considered, that went pretty fucking well. Hah.

It’s amazing that Erik Magneto can still be said, perfectly accurately, to have ‘lost it’ at the news of the Cure while being controlled enough to only bruise the bits that won’t show, so the youngest of his lieutenants can keep his part of their *Untouchable* thing on the podium at his side. Because he always thinks about things like that; how it’ll look, how the newest recruits will see matters, whether a nifty headline can be drawn from the details of an attack. John Pyro’s still figuring out a lot of things about this Brotherhood business, but one thing that has stuck is that when this is all over his house is going to have as little metal as possible, and he’s never going anywhere entirely made from it if he can help it…

(And it’s little things like that which, despite him being classed among the *Veteran* members now, drive home exactly how ill at home he is; John Pyro still has to remind himself that it’s never going to be able, that this is “The Cause” and that there’s no *normal life* book-ending it).

A glare is usually enough to scare off the newbies clamouring for news of what their illustrious leader is up to (he and Mystique are, it’s widely acknowledged, the only ones with that sort of privileged private access, and no one’s going to dare approach her), though a few more persistently suicidal sorts are treated to a variation of ”Fuck off”, and the really special ones get it with flaming underlines and exclamation marks thanks to his latest toy (okay, so Mags might be an evil bastard some of the time, but he knows his stuff… and Pyro has to admit, it’s much cooler to light up with a flick rather than root for a lighter, though he still keeps Sharky around, of course. Purely as back-up. No other reason…). Threat, intimidation and Magneto’s particular brand of *discipline*; that’s how things work around here. You get used to it. Or so he keeps telling himself. Sooner or later he’ll start believing it. Some time after he stops having to remind himself that he absolutely positively made the right choice, and hopefully more than a few seconds before he stops breathing.

Reaching the outskirts of “Tent City” on his way back from The Hub – Mag’s underground metal… thing, because of course the overlord isn’t going to slum it under canvas – the buzz sort of dies down; everyone’s in little clusters, word spreading, no doubt, amongst them as to the Big Damn Revelation. Everyone, that is, apart from him – who’s only real intention is to crawl back into bed, because being rudely awakened by said Revelation is just the latest break, the so-called freedoms of the Brotherhood not including the one he had been able to get away with at the ‘stute, its regime less forgiving of his allergy to mornings – and the one person in camp he can literally, as well as figuratively, look down on, even if attempting as much is not a good plan for anyone who doesn’t like winding up with a flick knife through their spleen. Or so Mags’ notes say, at least; even if Pyro was the sort to try and make friends, that’s not really timetabled in particularly neatly between ass-kicking lessons, leadership studies, and generally trailing around after The Illustrious Leader like a good little protégé.

He contemplates tossing You show that tree… as he passes, or maybe something equally… erm, well, lame’s the word, isn’t it? This isn’t the playground; he’s meant to be sort-of-kinda-in-charge-only-not-really. So maybe continuing in silence would be best. But… fuck, it’s been far too long since he could get away with an ill-thought out comment (Magneto not really being the best sparring partner, Mystique being a little too good…) and there’s enough of the old him there, tempered with the new leadership crap, that ”Save it for the flatliners, Sparky.” slips out before he can properly think better of it.

[Jolt]

Save it for the flatliners, Sparky. Sparky was really the only thing the redhead seems to hear. Will's jaw tightens, a muscle there actually twitching, and his head snapping back in response, fingers tightening into his palms until the nails dig into his skin. The electrical display more or less disappears with a 'zpt', the smoking pile of leaves the only evidence that he'd been taking his frustration out on it, which was better to the alternative of using a living thing--not to say that he hadn't done that before.

Clenching his teeth along with his jaw, Will turns his body until he is facing John, a bitter look crossing his expression, one that almost acutely has a semblance to 'you talkin' to me?'. His stance is challenging, almost daring Magneto's right hand to cross an invisible line into his personal space. He juts his chin out slightly, irritated by this momentary slip of tongue as he glares beneath his brows, his eyes already as dark as they could ever be. "Don't ever fucking call me that," he growls sharply, one of his hands almost involuntarily twitching slightly to the side towards his pocket--where he kept that damned switchblade undoubtedly. And while most had never seen him use it on anyone, it was doubtless that he had the guts too.

He and John had never exactly seen eye to eye in more ways than one. In Will's eyes, he is every bit as good and strong as John is and it's always eating him up inside pissing him off that blondie was Magneto's favorite next to Mystique. Huh. He doesn't look so tough.

Will's gaze avoids the pyrokinetic's eyes, either deadset on the area just between his eyebrows or glowering at John's shoes. There are no lights to signify his irritation, but the look on his face is obviously enough to say it all for him.

[Pyro]

… Oh hell yes, he’s missed this.

And yes, it’s childish and stupid, a return to playground politics, and yes, he should be above all that now. But it just feels so damn good, pushing buttons… always has. And doing this gives him another reason not to miss the Institute, because obviously it’s so much more fun out here, where there’s an actual risk - something more serious than a temperature drop and a little tactical water-damage to some prized possession or other – than pushing around Golden Boy, knowing he was never going to crack. Obviously (and no, that doesn’t take the challenge out of it, being around people whose boundaries are easy to find… he’s not fucking missing Drake, capeche?).

Pyro matches *Sparky*’s (oh fuck, no, he’s not calling him anything else now…) glare with a contemptuous sneer and dismissive snort. It’s powerful enough against the average, less temperamental, recruits, so against this kid, with his diminutive stature amplifying the condescending edge and tetchy nature no doubt priming him to latch on to any antagonism, it’s a safe bet to say it’s bloody venomous. ”Must’ve missed whichever memo said I had to listen to anything you told me.”

He turns his ostensible focus away from Will (which is probably more powerful than continuing to smirk down at him, implying that the electrokinetic brat isn’t worth wasting that little bit of brainpower on) his tone an idle almost-yawn as if the conversation is boring and a waste of his time. ”There’re two people in the Brotherhood who I have to respect enough to obey. Two. Yet to find anyone else I’d chose to, and if it ever happens it’s not going to be you.”

[Jolt]

Must've missed whichever memo said I had to listen to anything you told me. A growl of warning claws up the back edge of his throat, his face further contorting itself into the habitual scowl that seems to take hold of his expression like a mask. A shudder of energy grips his right arm, and Will digs his fingernails into his palm, spider-web tendrils of neon light spanning across his sallow complexion. Surprisingly, he stands his own ground as he begrudgingly watches John shift his focus, his heels digging into the dark earth that churns beneath the soles of the boots he's wearing, as if contemplating to give John a piece of his mind from a distance or to just jump him.

There's two people in the Brotherhood who I have to respect enough to obey. Two. Yet to find anyone else I'd chose to, and if it ever happens it's not going to be you. He unconcsiously gives his body a quarter turn as he puts one foot foward, still glaring beneath his heavy, dark brows.

"Don't fuck with me," Will snaps with a gutteral grumble, his lack of wit and social skills preventing any real comeback. His body is itching to move, itching to just have a rough and tumble with someone no matter what the hell they could do or what the fuck they said. "You want to fuckin' start something? Then fuckin' start it."