I don't own X-men: Evolution

"Well, well. Wot's this we've got 'ere?" A masculine voice chuckled.

Amara yelped as her story was rudely plucked right from under her pen.

"Hey! Give that back!" She looked up to see the grinning thief standing before her, looking over the papers.

He seemed to be about 17 years old, and he had the messiest, most orange hair she had ever seen, accompanied by a laughing grin. It was a face that was hard to forget. In fact, Amara was sure that she'd seen him somewhere before.

"Or you'll what?" The boy gave her an insolent wink and started scanning the penned pages of her story.

Amara felt her face burning. She hated it when people read her work...writing was a secret passion of hers, with emphasis on the secret, and she didn't like to show off to or be mocked by other people.

And now this...boy had just popped out of nowhere, grabbed her story and was now nonchalantly skimming her work, as if he did things like this every day. Maybe he did; people were strange here in America.

"Give it back now, or...I'll...I'll—"She swore she knew his face from somewhere.

"Wot, slap me? Write bad poetry about me? I'll tell ya, Sheila, there's a good plot here, but don't include songs. Your rhyme schemes are killing me eyes."

The Australian boy eyed his insulted target over the top of the sheaf of papers, smirking as she visibly got more and more angry by the minute. The sheila was positively smoking at the ears.

His eyes flicked back to the paper. The story was actually pretty good, but it really didn't interest him at all. Sure, he loved a good romance, but this was...slow? Perhaps, but that wasn't even half the problem. There was dialogue, intrigue, character development...but it lacked something, maybe motivation? No, that wasn't it, it was—

His train of thought was derailed by a strange crackling noise. His short attention span shifted itself to the sheila in front of him once again. His eyes opened wide, and he nearly dropped the paper at the sight before him.

Later, Amara would argue that the boy had driven her emotions to the point where they controlled her power. She would also argue that the spot she always came to write in was secluded, way in the corner of Bayville Park and surrounded by large trees and bushes, anyway. Nobody would see her except the boy.

But this was now, and she exulted in the fiery form that had earned her the name of Magma. Now it was her turn to smirk as the boy looked up at her, his blue eyes wide in shock.

She watched smugly, waiting for the boy to drop her papers, run away, and be too afraid to tell anyone about her ever again. Or so went her plan.

But—he didn't.

She looked on as the expression on the boy's face turned from one of utter astonishment to one of...

Oh no.

Now she recognized him, with that crazy gleam in his eyes, a joyful expression highlighted by the flickering of fire.

St John Allerdyce, or "Pyro" as he was called by friend and enemy alike, had never seen anything quite like the living, breathing flame standing before him. A vision of fire made substance, light and warmth barely tamed into the impish form of a teenaged girl.

Flame...he grinned wickedly as the girl tried shifting back to her original form. Ooooh, he was going to have himself some fun.

A/N: I'm such a hypocrite. "Dogboy" is on hiatus and I'm writing a new story. So sue me. Actually, please don't. Just review.