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"Anubis, lend me your voice..," a soft whisper escaped pale lips, each word a silent string as golden eyes came to greet the creature staring into a mirror, "is it a sinner's demise, to wish for your kingdom of the dead?" Though a short pause blanketed the scene, there was no hindrance for the black claw which traced its path across chalk skin. With sanguine blood trickling out of a newly carved wound, bubbles of bloodied droplets danced their way down a slender forearm, each blazing a trail to paint white skin red. "Am I to tread the fields of life for time ever after?" Mere moments, but an instant after the self-inflicted misery found home upon Azhar's frail body, it would heal to a closed state, remaining but a remnant within his mind, a memory. 

Though a blessing, a gift as some would call it, what happens when thoughts of an end so far out of hand comes to linger within your mind? It is often asked, what would you do if the loss of your life was a foreign concept? What risks would you take? However, it is when one asks why he who claims immortality wants to perish, that you delve into deeper purpose. Azhar, a young man born from the scolding deserts of Egypt, had known years to far surpass that of which he could claim to possess in both face and features. Indeed, the frail shape staring back at him in the mirror was that of a youngster, who would greet life with a spring in his step, and excitement upon the horizon.

Rather, this was not case. Tired eyes told of a different story, words dipped in melancholy draping their path over his presence. Six months had passed on this day, six months since he was welcomed into the Phoenix Unit. As a Son of Anubis, Azhar had less than moral methods of dealing with those of ill intent. It is as they say, a monster slays its own kin far better than anyone else. It is what the sons are, outcasts and abominations. Those who believe that they can make a difference from behind the obfuscation of shadows, and cloaks. Death is a not a sight comparable to the scent of roses or the taste of wine, but rather a bitter medicine required to save the world from itself. 

In modern day society, one could almost consider The Sons of Anubis a terrorist organization, one hellbent on rooting out corruption, and slaying that of which is branded as evil, and defiled. Azhar was under no delusion that he was a saint, but rather the opposite. There is a sacrifice in allowing oneself the darkness of Anubis, the intent to destroy with the purpose of creating a better world. "Or have my services not yet, ended?" He proceeded, a calm, harmonic yet melancholy voice making its way past pale lips. "In my hands I hold your blade, in my heart, your will." The Egyptian traced his fingers across a gilded scabbard harboring the ancient sword of Anubis, a blade known to strike fear into the wicked. Though stories of grandeur surrounded this weapon much like a mist, it also clouded the truth. Not even its wielder knew for sure, what was fiction and what spoke of reality. It was said that death by the Claw of Anubis would sever your very soul, ending any chance at a revival through foul means. Another mentioned that wounds inflicted by the blade would never heal, but it has been unclear as to whether this story is a mere tale, or not. None who have faced the blade thus far, have walked away with their lives still gripped tight. Now that, however, is true. 

Drawing the strap across his chest, Azhar sheathed his mythic blade upon the flat of his back, stepping out of the bathroom to join his squad in the break room. They were a colorful bunch, that was for sure. A human in their midst, no less. Indeed, The Sons had never dismissed anyone from their flock, human or mutant, however, Azhar could witness caution emanating from the actions of this Oscar. He was among heralds of doom, was he not? He stood amongst those who could bend reality to their will with means less than natural. "What, I wonder..," Azhar began, a light voice greeting the rest, "is the color of pain, for one whom has known misery at the hands of a scientist?" Gaining the enemy of a pyrokinetic was never a good idea, but this man, their charge, he had managed in that regard. "Maintaining vigilance is key, I am sure," he continued, "for when vengeance is served, there will be blood, lest we seek to hinder this development."