Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump.
A steady beat of blood around a body, ragged breathing, white walls and white skies, directions that were not directions and bearings that could not be gotten. A sense of life, yet not one of living. Incomplete.
His first assumption was unfinished business. Tasks incomplete, words yet unsaid. People unavenged- and vengeance to come to terms with. So much blood and fire and anguish and a whole world he had let down. No- they had let down. Not him. He was blameless; he had done nothing wrong, they had no right to let a hotshot take his place. They got what came to them and the world could deal with it- the world could burn. Fuck unfinished business, he didn't care.
His second decision- albeit half baked- was that he was a ghoul. Let exist to wreak havoc on those who wronged him, left to serve only himself and what he wanted. He could accept that, he decided. Maybe some god somewhere had taken pity on him- no. No, he was not one to be pitied, he was not weak and raggedy, he did not need anyone or anything to let him exist on an earth because they felt sorry for him. He. Was. Not. Pitiable.
He was- he was the god.
Which is why it stung when they came to tell him that he worked for them now, and that he didn't have his own identity. He was part of Talon, faceless behind a mask and nameless behind his face. They showed him the fire that burned inside him and that burned when he hurt and that burned when he was fine. They showed him the darkness swirling inside him that could be let out with ease but could only occasionally be coaxed back in. Weeks were spent learning how to master the beast and to tame it, before finally he came to a point where he would not turn into smoke and ash and fire every time he woke from a nightmare- ones he insisted he didn't have. Talon wasn't a place for weakness and it wasn't a place for nightmares. Months were spent learning to accept the pain that was a part of him, until finally he could raise an arm to pull off his mask without flinching- either at the effort of the manoeuvre or the stranger's face that greeted him.
He smashed every mirror that he had access to, and the ones he didn't have access to were the ones he never saw. He refused to see himself and he refused to let anyone else see him, letting his mask stay as if it were burned on to his skin. His team mates never knew his old name, or what he had looked like. They didn't know who he was or who we had worked for or even who he had loved. They didn't know how he died, they didn't know how he had lived. It was fitting that his training ended on the first day of November, the day all of his old friends would have honoured and worshipped him- they would be worshipping a god.
The god had a whole new story now.