Who: Alex/Phoenix What: Searching for a chain for his bullet When: Three days after waking Where: A jewellry store in Tokyo Warnings: None?
The alarms cut off suddenly, a wave of his hand directing his new power - the store of which inside him growing by the hour - to silence the machines.
Another flicker of power, a passing thought, switched on the lights; though he didn't need them, the rows and rows of gemstones and jewellry sparkled like tiny stars in their glass display cases, glinting in the light. And when every dust mote in the air shone like gold dust to your eyes, it was overwhelming how beautiful things could be.
The blood of his sixty-first kill was still warm inside him as he gazed at the treasure trove that took his breath away.
The warmth of the bullet in his palm reminded him of his purpose though, and after half an hour or so of being lost in the rainbow of light, he began to search for a chain.
Picking one up, he saw his reflection, in the glass, for the first time - and stared. For a moment, he didn't understand what he was looking at; only when his mind made one of its sudden leaps in logic, like when he leapt upon his prey, did he connect the thing in the glass with himself.
He cocked his head. So did the face in the glass.
It - he - looked very like his prey. That hadn't occured to him before, though it should have. But his eyes were silvery, like emeralds seen through a haze of molten silver or mecury, and his skin had a sheen, almost a glow. From no where, his mind confured the image of moths, inexorably drawn to the light that killed them. The idea amused him; amidst the gold and jewels he laughed - and the sound cut off abruptly as he watched the effect making the sound had on his face.
There was dirt and dried blood dotted over his body, which had filled out since he'd stolen the clothes, a cashmere jumper and silk trousers, sapphire blue and black. There were light etchings of muscle in his arms and chest now - enough to be attractive, but he was still deceptively slight. His hair glittered, gold and soft where it wasn't speckled with blood - dappled with black like the glossy plummage of a hawk. In short, he concluded, his appearance gave almost no clues as to what he was. Only his eyes.
He shrugged, moving away - when a glint caught his eye, and he turned back.
Behind the glass, the medallion that had grabbed his attention glittered. The gold oval depicted one of the four Chinese animals, a phoenix, rising from the etched flames in the Western style. None of this made it through to him; only one word -
Phoenix.
Reborn from the flames. Remembering the torturous flames he'd woken to, his burning thirst, and the hazy, blurred memories of a previous life, he decided. Phoenix.
He needed a name, after all. Or, rather, he wanted one. Who else would use it, he didn't know.