[center][img]https://i.imgur.com/0fROhhs.png[/img]
[color=254f28][u][b]Location[/b][/u][/color]
💀 Brookside Bar.

[color=254f28][u][b]Time[/b][/u][/color]
💀 Evening.

[color=254f28][u][b]Interactions[/b][/u][/color]
💀 None.
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Change. It was the bulk of what had transpired following Azhar’s involvement in the destruction of a mobster family known as the ‘Guglianos’. Whether a positive or negative shift, Azhar was quite unsure, but a twist in the narrative it truly remained. A bright smile had made way for a far more mellow expression, and a talkative young man had paused ceaseless chatter. He recalled the countless conversations held between himself and the ruling bodies of HERO, which in turn allowed for a spiritual journey to follow. Fifty-seven people killed, or rather, erased. What remained was fabric, each individual article of clothing scrubbed clean of DNA. ‘As if they had never existed’, was a sentence Azhar had been afforded during the many interactions now drilled into his pale skull. Perhaps most shocking of all was Azhar’s lack of a new bracelet, despite the old trinket’s destruction. Additionally, he was assigned rather specific assignments, all of which were less than public in their execution. 

One would be forgiven in response to confusion, but the development of this specific mutant’s career maintained a single path. He could not escape who he was, and denying his nature was a child’s naive dream. No, for Azhar, other doors had opened. Of course, the change came hand in hand with his growing control where a man by the handle of ‘Morocco’ taught the deathly creature how to conduct himself. Had the story been written by a more lighthearted author, perhaps Azhar would have surpassed his inner desires, his biological programming. However, such was not the case, as reality dictated. 

Rather, for the dark mutant now enjoying a glass of whiskey in a street-side bar, the outcome found itself split down the middle. He did, indeed, manage to profess control over himself, but that desire to extend a deathly touch would forever remain. Azhar was a virus, an entity with one sole purpose, which was to spread. Such was the nature of any creation such as himself, be it a mindless infection or an inhuman being neither homosapien nor ‘gifted’. 

What then, was one to do? Coldwater was a waste of Azhar’s abilities and the grayscale world they all lived in demanded more than the golden hand of heroism. Nothing quite as grand as Division X, Zee was prescribed a more singular group, one that consisted of himself, an Angel of Death, if the dramatic statement once ascribed to him held any value. 

It would be fair to consider Azhar an Operative, rather than a Hero. He most certainly wouldn’t classify himself as the latter, nor did he find any interest in the concept. Not anymore. Indeed, the boy still remembered thoughts as presented where he claimed a position of fame, a stage where he could prove that Monsters were Heroes, as well. He was proven wrong. Despite his best efforts, Azhar was unable to deny his biology, what he truly was, and that was assuredly not a Hero. 

His friends, despite their collateral shortcomings, claimed such a title with flamboyant zeal. As for Azhar, he was done pretending. Morocco had taught the boy much, a wise and experienced man with an ability to tame the Devil. Zee was thankful for the opportunity, something which saved his life, in all fairness. Something which had been gifted by Samson, a young Hero by far surpassing his age with wisdom and foresight. Despite a blatant difference in personality, Azhar could see how Morocco and Samson confessed to a relationship akin to father and son. 

Clicking his claws against the glass between those taloned fingers, Azhar’s attention rose to the bartender as she spoke, thoughts occasionally drifting to a party his companions were currently attending. Blake had extended an invitation to the Devil as well, and where Zee would have jumped at the opportunity a select few months earlier, this changed individual now occupying a bar in Brookside found little interest in such gatherings. 

Yes, change, it was indeed a heavy word which encapsulated the passing of these months. From Hero to Operative, from bright to mellow, and most notably, from denial to acceptance. Azhar had embraced the darkness within, the emboldened yearning and horrific joy erupting from destruction. He had embraced it, and in its wake he had abandoned futile attempts at another outlook. If HERO had a less reputable section of secret assignments drenched in moral ambiguity, Azhar was unquestionably there, wielding powers previously sealed, in secrecy. 

“I’ll be honest,” began the bartender, her attention lingering on the young man before her. One could likely note his age, nineteen, and that drinking in an establishment such as this required an additional two years before the law looked favorably upon the act, but Brookside merely laughed at the notion. If you had the money, you had the right. “I never thought I’d be serving whiskey to a Demon.” 

[color=254f28]"Just don’t seal a deal with me, and you’ll be fine,"[/color] Zee commented, his sharp teeth revealed where the boy managed a small grin.

“I dunno’,” she offered, followed by a shrug of her shoulders, “lotsa’ folk around here would be more than willing to sell their souls.” 

With that tail slowly swaying from one end to the other, Azhar tilted his head, a grin persisting. It would be a lie to claim that he didn’t find comfort in a rundown establishment such as this, one of many in Brookside. All of the layers had been peeled away, leaving nothing but the raw truth meeting an onlooker’s gaze. [color=254f28]"I’ll keep that in mind,"[/color] Zee sipped his drink, gently swirling the golden-brown liquid within. 

“So, got a name there, Lucifer?” Came a question dotting their friendly conversation. Indeed, Azhar had abandoned the Heroic name he once bore, for it belonged to someone else entirely, someone who in the passing of a mere few months had faded. A boy who enjoyed singing, a young man who sought to stand beneath the sun despite its unforgiving rays, a fond if naive memory which it now embodied. 

[color=254f28]"Lucifer works,"[/color] Azhar agreed, before he proceeded to lean against the counter, [color=254f28]"or Zee. Lucifer’s a bit too dramatic for this place, isn’t it?"[/color] Despite the overhaul this specific Devil had suffered, his flair for the dramatic had lingered to some extent. No, he scarcely stepped onto stages anymore, and didn’t sing like he had before. However, the theatrical young man residing within was not going anywhere, and only found himself developing further through a mellow, withdrawn position. Perhaps that was what gave rise to his new handle, but whatever had gifted him the title, Azrael would forever translate into ‘The Angel of Death’, which Azhar had now fully accepted.