[i]I am the dead.[/i]

He stirred, stirred in the darkness, sensation gradually flowing into his mind as warmth flowed into his limbs. There was something on his tongue, something cold, metallic--he spat, or tried to, dirt coming into his mouth. He realized then where he was, why he couldn't see...Why he couldn't spit whatever it was out. He was underground, his legs pinned by their muddy prison. He nearly screamed, but realized the sound would be muffled, that any air he gave up would be air he couldn't get back. He slung one of his arms up with all his might, wincing as his fist hit the wall of earth--but it cracked, and spurred on he punched it again, and again, until finally light started to stream through the hole. He gasped, pulling himself out, coughing the rest of the dirt and the metal object (whatever it was) out on to the mud of a freshly dug and extremely shallow grave. It was a small, golden coin, as it turned out... And though he couldn't see why, he felt strangely attached to it. [i]για τον Άδη[/i] the inscription read, and somehow he knew...

[i]For Hades.[/i] Was that who he was? Another name came to his mind, a longer but somehow... Less oppressive one. Hal Desmond. First syllables aside... Hal. That was his name. That's who he'd be.

A scarf was around his neck twice, the same color as the rest of his clothing--black, for some reason, maybe Hal Desmond was some kind of Goth--but seemed to shimmer--

[i]BANG[/i]! A single shot careened off a headstone near Hal, his eyes going wide with fear as he turned--

"Damn it man, he's alive!"

The shouter was holding a backpack and a two-pronged spear, and instinctively Hal knew... Those were his. And he was going to get them back. More from reflex than anything else, he threw the end of his scarf around his neck once more, and--the world was transparent, like a dream... The gunmen facing him looked like shadows of themselves, aiming back and forth, looking for a target that wasn't there. Only the spear was still solid, and Hal made for it as fast as he could, snagging it out of the thug's lax hand, spinning and slamming the butt of the weapon into his head. The man crumpled, and Hal, still in the flow of battle, stabbed him in the chest--then pulled back, the man's breath coming in ragged gasps. Damn, he hadn't meant to... By the gods... [i]Killing mortals, Hades?[/i] some voice rang out of his subconscious, and he shook his head, still in shock.

Still another one to worry about, though. The clatter and careen of more shots scared him out of his reverie, and another quick slam to the head sent the other man into sleepy-town-fun-times. Hal unwrapped his scarf, staggering back and leaning against a particularly large monument, staring at the sky and at the ruined city buildings around him. He'd answered the "who" question, he was Hal Desmond. Maybe... Maybe "what" and "where" were better...

The sound of shouting was moving toward him, and he pushed himself off of the stone, facing more of what looked like the same band who had just attacked him. There were five, at least, and even with the scarf... Frenzied shooting was likely to get him...

There came the last, slow, death rattle of the man he'd killed, and then a much louder sound. Black energy burst forth from the dying man's chest, shrieking as it blasted its way toward Hal, slamming into him and removing all of his fatigue, his weakness at just waking, filling him with what seemed like infinite energy. He smiled slightly. Fight was still uneven, but... Whatever that was, no matter how it disturbed him, it sure did even the odds.