Additional Tags and Content Warnings to watch out for through the story:
Canon Compliant, Canon Extrapolation, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Action/Mystery, Slice of Life, Criminal Behavior, Organized Crime, Discussion of Difficult Topics, Poverty, Homelessness, Discrimination, Human Rights Abuses, Human Experimentation, Medical Trauma, Mental Health Issues, Loneliness, Depression, Post-Traumatic Stress, Amnesia, Self-Worth Issues, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Recreational Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Death, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Suicidal Thoughts
These warnings look heavier than they'll be depicted, I'm just being cautious. If this story feels like it should have a heavier rating let me know and I'll update that.
Reincarnation was the name of Shenlong's story in BR2, which always made me curious. I don't know if the developers already planned ahead for Shen to return in BR3 the way he had when BR2 was being written, but the name seems to have dual meanings and a lot of heavy symbolism. It can represent his own state of mind from the start of the story to the end where his reality is broken and changed, the path of the Liberation Front's leader pursuing his own demise which then sparked the WOC to rise from the ZLF's ashes, his own death and revival into the next game, and even his relationship with Long to a degree.
Phoenixes have become an important visual motif in Shenlong's design too, so much that he wears a fenghuang on his vest in Primal Fury/Extreme & BR4 to counter Long's dragon. Eastern phoenixes have a very different significance from western phoenixes but I think they're both appropriate and relevant to Shenlong's characterization. I've always wanted to explore this journey toward self-discovery that could make Shenlong worthy of those birds, so that's where this fic idea came from!
Pain was the first sensation; a dull, persistent ache that colored his perception with each breath. Lungs drew shallow within a heavy chest, hesitant to rise more than necessary. This ache coursed through him anew at the harsh command of an unsteady pulse.
For some moments he lay there, body protesting its own existence. Not a thought rang clear over the blood pounding in his ears. Static buzzed through a palpable darkness which grew ruddy and crimson until light pierced his vision. The man's head ached all the more with his eyes open. Nerves twinged in time with the unruly organ caged in his chest.
Each blink forced the swirling white void before him to solidify a most mundane horror: he didn't recognize this room.
That knocked what little wind he had right out of him. Sudden malaise threatened to sear his eyes shut from the truth. After several breathless seconds, he inhaled deeply─and seized from a sharp pain in his chest. Slow, controlled exhales released the tension in his muscles, and the pain with it. Soreness lingered, forcing his breath to remain tremulous.
Every inch of his body complained about being alive, though some parts of him lamented existence more than others. The front of his torso; shoulders and elbows; knees, forearms, and knuckles; all of them raw. Reluctantly, the man dared to move.
He willed his fingers to curl─first one, two, three─into a loose fist, then flexed his fingers as far as they could stretch. Open-palmed and closed-handed he tested the articulation of his wrists, up and down, side to side, then rolled them in slow circles. He bent his elbows and lifted his arms, one at a time and then together. Raising both arms into his field of view revealed an assortment of wrapped bandages and adhesive strips. Hesitantly the man touched his face and found more along his jaw, the largest of which sat squarely over his left cheek. Mild pressure caused only a light sting; better than expected, given how numerous these injuries appeared.
From there he chanced to pull the quilted blanket from his lower half. Much like everything else, the clothes he wore were unfamiliar; a plain white t-shirt with gray sweatpants that seemed a tad short for his legs. Once again he tested limb response, first stretching the toes of his bare feet then rolling the ankles. With his legs straightened, they were long enough to hang somewhat off the end of the sofa. He was sore here too but mercifully nothing felt broken.
Curtains of dark hair draped into his vision as he rose from a supine position. The room spun. He closed his eyes, centered himself on the sensations in his body, and upon opening them found the room had gone still. Whether from the pain or anything else, his head and stomach were just as unhappy to greet the world as the rest of his body.
Each laborious movement met resistance from his limbs for even the simplest actions. With so much exertion just to plant his feet on the floor, the man cradled his head. Questions whirled through his mind, too fast to answer. Even the thoughts he managed to interrogate gave nothing useful. Beneath his shirt lay bumps of gauze and wrappings; more injuries, all neat and cared for. There was no blood that he could see, not on his skin or clothes, which meant nothing had opened─yet that proved a cold comfort amidst his confusion.
There was so little he could recall; pathways of memory darkened and vague, at best mired by haze. He had to think. Sift through the fog and find something, anything he could latch onto. He saw shadows, people entering and exiting a room─not this room, more sterile with the steady beep of monitors. There was also the city, lit bright against the night sky. He remembered the wind caressing his face, the way it combed through his hair─he was somewhere high, free of walls and tubes, and then… nothing; he was there and now he was here.
Whatever space he now occupied was smaller than that sterile prison, though far from cramped. The ceiling was tiled with pockmarked eggshell. Pale featureless walls surrounded him, offset by sheer olive green curtains which served to dim sunlight peeking through a nearby window. There was a sofa beneath him, cushioned with a striped and scratchy material. Beside that rested a low folding table clear of clutter, save for a small white case at the center. Across the room stared the blank screen of a boxy television, an old cathode ray sporting an inlaid VCR.
With effort, and assistance from the furniture, he pulled himself from the sofa and began a precarious beeline for the nearby window. The clear blue of noontime shone bright behind a city skyline, and from there patterns emerged. He recognized little from this lower vantage, save for the tops of buildings and the shape of their windows which lined up with his memory of the lights at night.
Wherever he was now, the man hadn't traveled far.
Below the pane, only two stories down, cluttered sidewalks and congested streets eased the tension in his jaw. He wasn't isolated from the world, nor was he trapped somewhere desolate.
Four doors attached to the walls between this living area and the kitchen, which stood open. Three of the doors were closed, sentinels over their respective rooms. His skin tingled with apprehension. The silence was overwhelming.
Decisively, he limped for the only door that hung ajar. Instinct urged him to the wall, to peer inside the crack before pushing the door further. Much as the main area, this room was humble. The walls inside were speckled by mismatched photo frames, different sizes and shapes, with no consistency in color or era. There was a bed, a mattress that could just barely fit two adults, a table that hosted a filtered aquarium, and a closet. He hugged the wall to the interior door, listened, then slid the closet open. Nothing but clothes hangers and a laundry basket.
Clear.
The room beside this, with its closed door, was given the same treatment. First he listened, then turned the knob and leaned away. Silence. His palm pressed to the door and sent his heart pounding when he could only open it halfway. Through the space between its hinges was a dark shape that, only after putting his full weight against the door to keep it there, he recognized as a haphazardly placed dresser. The whole room was filled with furniture, boxes, and knick-knacks with little space to move. Maybe once it served as an office, now nothing more than storage. No closet, no places to hide, and he wasn't about to trap himself investigating.
Clear.
Third door now, and his limbs dragged like weights. Back across the living room, past the sofa, he stopped against the wall to breathe. White tile floor greeted him; one of those compact bathrooms, a standing shower, wall mirror, and a toilet with a sink on the back tank to conserve water.
Clear.
He stepped inside.
The mirror offered no solace. Before him stood a stranger, a man with a face he could only call his own for how it moved with him, scrunched up and expressed as he did. He turned his head, pulled straight dark hair away from his face, ran a hand along his jaw, and the reflection copied.
Faint, unshaven stubble prickled his fingertips. There were few wrinkles or natural blemishes; a light tan marked by fading bruises across his cheeks, nose, and eyes; that hallmark scab of a split lip nearly healed. The whites of his eyes were tinted pink from recovering blood vessels, and through them pierced vibrant red irises.
The man looked worn and ragged, just as he felt, yet still in his prime despite the injuries. What a paltry silver lining when he couldn't even identify himself in the mirror.
With trembling hands and shuddering breath, he pulled up the bottom of his shirt. His stomach and chest were mottled with the dark purple and gnarled yellow of healing bruises. Like his arms, bandages and adhesives interrupted the patterns across his skin, with remnants of small cuts and abrasions that were all but healed speckled in between.
Over his chest, just slightly left of center, was a tidy square of taped down gauze. He gently traced the edges, testing sensitivity of the wound beneath, and grimaced as his fingers moved further in. Bracing a hand beside the mirror, he pulled up the end of his shirt to his mouth and bit down on the fabric. Eyes locked on his reflection, the man carefully picked at the medical tape along the top edge. With each slow, successful peel, his breath rattled in anticipation of the wound beneath.
Stitches. More than a dozen of them over several lacerations. How ugly they must have been, open and bleeding, concentrated around his heart.
What the hell happened to him? Who could have done this much damage? And why?
He didn't know who, where, or even what he was.
Was all this damage from an accident? An attack?
Was it done by an animal or a person?
Was he still in danger?
Did he need to run?
He bent down, arm around his middle. His heart hammered with each new question, urging the air into his lungs with keen desperation. Each hurried pulse slammed against his ribs like a battering ram that threatened to cave his chest in.
Stop, the man commanded, folding over his knees. Just stop, dammit!
His rear met the floor. Curled into a corner, he fought the erratic rhythm of his lungs.
Dizzy.
Thoughts whirling.
Stomach churned.
Had he been there for minutes or hours?
With a shaking hand, he clumsily pasted the tape against his skin to protect the stitches.
Think. If he was cleaned up, stitched, and cared for, then surely the immediate threat of whatever did this to him was gone. Right. Breathe.
None of the pictures in the bedroom matched his appearance─many were old, slathered in sepia and decorated by war─but that didn't mean he was a stranger. The possibility remained that this was his home and that's why he was here. Even so, this place would provide him no answers if he couldn't identify the man who stared back at him through the mirror as anything more than Me.
Sweat lined his brow, catching long dark strands as his breath finally began to slow.
Get it together.
There was still one door to open.
Outside lay a hallway with another door just across the floor. Towards the left stood a descending staircase, towards the right the hall extended with more doors and, at the very end, an elevator. This apartment seemed ordinary, a typical tenement afforded by service and office workers─mid-range, modest.
The door across from him opened, and the force of his pulse nearly sent him reeling back to the floor. Instead, he pulled the door toward the wall and peered through the crevice.
Someone in a blue bathrobe stepped out, short and wide in stature, hair done up in a messy bun. Without so much as a glance, slippered feet carried the neighbor toward a mail plaque on the wall. Her back was to him and his mind raced.
If he lived here then this woman would recognize him. She might want to make small talk─he couldn't do that right now. How much would it distress someone to learn a person they were even loosely acquainted with had no memory of themselves? (Not to mention the injuries.) On the other hand, if she didn't recognize him then he didn't belong here─that could spell trouble.
Just leave, he urged the woman, who stood there shuffling envelopes.
His luck was rotten.
Their eyes locked the instant she turned from the wall.
He slammed the door with the weight of his shoulder.
"Hey!"
Hurried knocks echoed through his bones.
"Are you alright?"
The door knob jiggled.
Locked.
Safe.
Another deep exhale, slow and controlled.
Her insistence didn't last; with one final palm of the door, he heard the irritable click of her tongue, shuffling of slippers, and the thud of her own door. Only when he could continue undisturbed did he dare pursue his investigation.
From what he could see, whoever lived here did so alone─there was no sign of young children or other dependents. Whether he belonged here or not, the neighbor didn't consider him a dangerous intruder. That counted for something. Still, he couldn't deduce much from all this, and even less in his sorry state.
His stomach rolled, conjuring a clammy chill that left him nauseated.
Lightheaded, the man stumbled toward the kitchen. Compact like the bathroom, this half of the apartment served as a joint cooking and dining area. There wasn't much of a pantry so much as non-perishables tucked into some cabinets beside dishware. Basic low income fair; most of the funds must have gone to the unit.
Much of the packaged food was opened and clipped off or trapped within cans. Behind a container of miso paste sat a sealed bag of rice crackers that were swiftly claimed. He had to sop up some of this acid and they were the only thing not tampered with. Bottles of clear water sat atop the refrigerator. He pulled one off and twisted the cap, airing a relieved sigh when the plastic delivered a satisfying snap. At least he didn't have to worry about poison.
After so much excitement, he retreated to the couch. There he settled, to breathe, to drink. Hydration flushed some of the heaviness from his head; he hadn't realized how thirsty he was until he emptied the bottle in one go. Retrieving another, he sat back down─and shut his eyes from a different sort of nausea. First his empty stomach demanded to be filled, now it struggled to process the most basic component he needed to live. He swallowed every time his gorge threatened to rise and breathed slowly, in through the nose, out through the mouth, until the tides of acid calmed and opening his eyes wouldn't send him reeling sick. Then he drank more and cautiously built himself up from a single sip every half-minute.
One small rice cracker at a time, the man worked slowly to ease a body that had gone unfed for days on nothing more than intravenous saline solution. Each crunch was deafening in his own head and the crinkle of plastic rang harsh in the silent apartment. When the quiet became unbearable, he turned on the TV. There was no remote, so he sat on the edge of the table and pressed the channel buttons manually─commercials, dramas, documentaries─until he stumbled on a news station.
The weather report announced a sunny afternoon in late July, with clear skies predicted for the rest of the week. The screen changed, showing a map of Hokkaido and its regional temperatures, then again to compare the northern island's weather with all of Japan. Further south, the rest of the country was sweltering; he supposed he was grateful for the low humidity, he'd already sweated enough since he woke up.
"Enjoy that sunshine while you can," a news anchor warned as the screen transitioned to the station interior, "we're due for some rain next month."
"And following the incident earlier this week, please advise that we are under curfew for all outdoor activities after sunset. This will affect the Sapporo Summer Festival as well. Unless you have urgent business, return to your homes by eight o'clock for everyone's safety."
Incident?
And here he was, healing from a week's worth of injuries. That couldn't be a coincidence.
"Police are still investigating disruptions which may be tied to the recent Paragon Systems incident. Beware the congested street and foot traffic while Toyohira Ward is under heavy surveillance. Some streets may be locked down per the investigation, so remember to plan your routes accordingly to avoid any delays."
Muted thuds beneath the floor interrupted the man's attention, more felt than heard. He scanned the buttons and pressed down with his thumb until the volume reached zero. Invisible cotton filled his ears. Movement rose from downstairs, and with each step a strange feeling crept up his spine. It spread through his entire body, lit every pore with the same sort of excitement as peering over the roof of a highrise.
Then the sound hit; muffled chatter closing in just outside the door. What almost felt exhilarating twisted into panic.
Keys jingled. The injured man scrambled to his feet, lurching through aches and pains to reach the kitchen.
The deadbolt clicked. He tore a cooking knife from the cutting block.
Hinges creaked. His fingers moved on their own, flipping the handle between index and middle, blade curved out and pointed at the ground; grip steady, chambered─practiced.
The door opened. Brown paper bags led a languid charge into the apartment. Two steps, three, and then a pause. The door closed.
He stood fixed, combat ready at the center of this unremarkable kitchen, face to face with an older man in his seventies whose arms were filled with groceries. Their eyes locked from a few meters apart, both men standing still as stones.
"Looks like I startled you… Sorry about that."
The old man had decent humor for confronting someone a head taller than him, wielding a kitchen knife like it was made for tactical combat.
"These bags are heavy, so I'm going to put them down."
Seconds ticked by as they regarded one another, waiting for the other to move.
Pausing, watching, breathing.
The injured man tightened his grip as the older man stepped forward. Instinct urged him to take the knife and run. That woman hadn't seen his face. The way he ran into the kitchen just now, adrenaline could probably carry him far if he made a break for it.
Somehow this geezer seemed unbothered by their confrontation. He turned toward the counter, exposing his back, and didn't seem to consider the threat of being knifed from behind.
One swipe of gleaming metal was all it would take to leave this man bleeding on the floor.