She was something different, something contrastingly darkly glorious and as blank and empty as a pale porcelain doll, with a cold gaze and an expressionless mask of a face, with painted color and even features. And she was as deadly as a wild beast, the trained instincts of a killer nestled comfortably inside a deceptively slender body.
She took no notice of him at first, but she was clearly well attuned to the small, tiny things that separated his kind from the human norm. Just as he spotted her, recognizing her as, if not something supernatural, certainly something strange and inhuman, she noticed him. It wasn't anything he was doing intentionally, but perhaps some of his vampire speed, bleeding into his walk, or perhaps the confidence in his step, even as late at night as it was.
She didn't say a word. She didn't increase her pace. She simply redirected herself, stepped in front of him, and pushed him down the street with a strength that confirmed his suspicions that she was something other than merely human.
Though the hit had been hard, it was nothing for him, and he relaxed himself, waiting on the ground as the woman stalked forward, the streetlight above illuminating her face, and it was only his carefully practiced control that prevented him from gasping in shock.
"Pearl?" he asked quizzically, for a brief, wild second, wondering whether the dead vampire had somehow managed to return from the grave. He dismissed this as quickly as he had considered it, as the woman continued to approach, her eyes impassive and blank, her face still devoid of emotion, as if someone had gone into her mind and scooped out all of her feelings. For a moment, she reminded him of a vampire who had flipped the switch, but then he reconsidered. She was more like someone with the illusion of apathy, someone who had grown so accustomed to a lack of emotion that she no longer felt anything at all.
She was in no hurry. A few feet away now, her nails, a silver color that he had originally assumed was polish, elongated, flickering brightly in the light up above, lengthening to blade-like proportions. She paused, and a slight flicker of something akin to confusion flashed across her face, gone before Elijah was sure it was even there.
Then, she attacked. He would have moved sooner, if he had seen it. As it was, there had been no hesitation, none of the normal facial cue's that he had learned to expect. He managed to regain an upright position and avoid most of the damage, but his shoulder was clipped, and he snarled in surprise, reeling back and waiting for it to heal.
The confusion on the woman's face lasted slightly longer this time, as she eyed the newly-closed wound with an empty gaze. The confusion amplified, turning quickly into agony, as Elijah moved forward, becoming a dark blur, and sinking his fangs into her throat.
He tore through flesh and veins, not searching for a meal, only trying to incapacitate her. She cried out, hands stabbing repeatedly into his stomach, but she was rapidly weakening, her blood pouring down her shirt. She moaned, and he released her, watching as she fell to the ground like a broken toy, trembling hands reaching for her neck. He stepped back, wincing as his body repaired itself, glancing down to check on the condition of his suit.
What saw when he looked up nearly caused his jaw to unhinge. She was standing, actually standing, pushing herself to her feet, eyes still cool and uncaring. He gaped, amazed- she shouldn't be able to move anymore, much less stand- but before he could either try to snap her neck or applaud her strength, he realized she, too, had healed, under the drying blood staining her skin, there lay only smooth flesh, uninjured and unmarred.
Something like a smirk flashed over her lips, and he stared in appreciation and wonder. Though she was his enemy, he couldn't help but marvel at her beauty, thinking her as something forged from silver and pain, some lovely, deadly creature with liquid metal for eyes and bones, and darkness simmering under fair skin.
But that didn't stop him from trying again to murder her. He darted forwards, plunging his hand into her, reaching to pull her heart from her body. He failed. Her ribs were too strong, the bones refusing to bend or break, even to his supernatural strength, cultivated over a thousand years. She smiled again, a cold, mechanical grin, her fingernail's slowly elongating as he tried desperately to pull his hand out of her chest, captured as it was, between her ribs, her other hand holding it in place, keeping it trapped, his fingertips brushing over her beating heart.
Elijah saw her elegant fingers stretching out, and a flash of silver, before there was a sharp slash of pain, and, for the first time in centuries, he blacked out.
When he awoke, they were in a different place, an empty warehouse with flickering light bulbs attached to the high ceiling. She was standing there, and there was the glimmer of a smile on her lips, an almost genuine amusement curling the edges of her mouth.
"I don't think you're a mutant," she said after a short pause, "But you aren't human, either. That much is certain. I don't need to kill non-mutants. I suppose I'll let you go."
"Should I be thanking you?" Elijah asked hoarsely, rubbing his neck as he stood, unsurprised when his hand returned bloodied.
"If you like." She waited.
"Who are you?" Elijah asked, curious.
Real emotion was now present in her features, before she smoothed them away. "He called me Deathstrike," she said softly, "I was with him for so long… I've forgotten much about my life before then. But… I think my name was Yuriko."
"Yuriko," Elijah said, playing with the name, before extending his hand. She took it. "I'm Elijah," he returned, smiling. "And I think we could have a lot of fun together."
