User has no status, yet


Hey, thanks for swinging by, and stuff.

Relevant information as follows.

Time zone
🍄 GMT+1.

Preferred RPs
🍄 High Casual to Advanced.
🍄 Superhero RPs.
🍄 Superhuman RPs.
🍄 Mutant RPs.

🍄 PMs.
🍄 Discord.

RP Experience
🍄 I have been RPing for about 12 years.

🍄 Writing.
🍄 Meeting new people.
🍄 Making characters.

Personal Shit
🍄 Age, (27).
🍄 Country, (Sweden).
🍄 Gender, (Male).

🍄 I am rather impatient.
🍄 I tend to post 1 - 3 times a day, if the RP interests me.
🍄 Slow posters annoy me.
🍄 If you are easily offended, we will not get along.

🍄 I tend to make edgy little shits, because they're fun.
🍄 I enjoy making scrawny, pale bitches.
🍄 In RPs where sexuality is relevant, my characters are gay.

Most Recent Posts

💀 Azhar’s Apartment.

💀 Late Evening.

💀 @DClassified

Following the police’s involvement, Zee could leave. However, his mind lingered. Why did Hugo Powers consistently provide weaker foes for the mutant to fight? Was it to prevent a scenario where the boy abandoned reason in the face of struggle? Clenching his teeth, Azhar turned in bed, his arms gently wrapped around Dracula’s soft, dark frame. He was getting tired of stopping drug dealers, and barely combat-ready villains. It was starting to be reminiscent of an insult. The confrontation with Astral had been little more than a conversation, before the battle was won. If intel provided the villain's exact location, why didn’t they just send in the police, initially? Despite his frustrated thoughts, Azhar was aware of the answer. It was to prevent deaths, and that much could be handled by drafting a Hero with the ability to incapacitate without killing.

A rather ironic assessment in relation to Azhar, of all people. Shifting his gaze towards the bracelet around his forearm, Zee did little in stopping Dracula’s paw from repeatedly poking the device where he lay. "This is it, huh?" The deathly mutant commented, his recipient turning with a curious, four-eyed glance, before returning to a far more interesting venue of focus. Azhar’s bracelet. "Ever thought about us putting a cape on you, Dracula?" A sharp-toothed grin bridged itself across the mutant’s lips before he felt a tail slapping his face, which in turn warranted a chuckle. "We could be Death and his trusty steed!" Claws tenderly combed their way across Dracula’s raven fur, before Azhar eventually sat.

Placing the cat on his lap, Zee expressed a deep sigh, his eyes closing as he leaned against the wall. "I wonder what the others are doing," came a quiet statement. "Some mafia thing, wasn’t it?" Azhar murmured, his black claws continuously moving across Dracula’s shape in a constant, albeit absentminded manner. The comfort of his bed had overtaken them both, and yet, the mutant managed little in regards to rest. Turning his attention to the cellphone at his side, Zee paused. Part of him wanted to call Powers and halfway scream at that man. ‘Let me fight some real villains, I won’t go nuts and turn into a fucking horseman of the apocalypse,’ Azhar frowned. Perhaps he was digging too far into this. It could have been that he was simply the only available Hero, considering how his co-workers were tangled in a mess he honestly had no interest in. Too many Heroes on one mission tended to end in disaster. Abilities clashed, plans failed if there were any, to begin with, and allies stumbled over one another. The mutant still recalled those scarce missions he had, in fact, participated in together with the others. Only one of them was in any capacity a notable display of teamwork. That trip to the maximum-security prison in Mexico. It worked because the right people were there, and a tactical approach was, for once, entertained.

Embracing the monstrous cat on his lap, Azhar planted a soft kiss atop Dracula’s forehead. It was impossible to deduce how long he continued to sit in the same position, those large, black eyes aimed towards a ceiling with no actual sight in mind. He had recently noticed how a previously chipper and outgoing personality was slowly fading in lieu of a more reserved disposition. Perhaps Astral was right in his attempts at taunting the boy. Perhaps the phantasmal teen was forcing himself to like others. Though, the very same man was trying to seed doubt within the Hero’s mind with every statement. "I’m not forcing anything..," a frown returned, presenting itself upon Azhar’s face. Reaching for his phone and a stylus, both of which rested undisturbed at the boy’s side, Zee scrolled down his list of contacts until he reached the letter S. Moments later, letters were tapped in rapid succession.

’Hey, Sam. Want to hang out? Doing Hero stuff? Need any help?' The stylus hovered over an intimidating button titled ‘send’. With a deep breath, Zee finally tapped the button before sliding onto his pillow.

💀 Brookside.
💀 Warehouse 9.

💀 Evening.

💀 None.

“Purpose,” Astral stated, motioning towards the large window behind his desk, a circular glass view which allowed sight into the warehouse interior. “I gave all these people purpose,” he continued. “All of them would have overdosed by now,” the man exhaled smoke as he placed his cigar between two fingers. “So tell me,” came a short pause as Astral leaned against his desk, those bright sapphires meeting Azhar’s abyssal gaze, “how horrible is this, truly?”

"You’re asking me if turning people into mindless husks is morally preferable to drug-induced suicide?" Azhar raised a brow, and sipped his drink. "Really digging deep there, aren’t you?"

With a grin bridging across Astral’s lips, the man took another drag of his cigar. “Before you acquired that bracelet,” he motioned towards Azhar’s arm, “how much of a morally superior mess did you leave behind at the end of every mission, my friend?”

A faint frown made itself known on the deathly mutant’s face, his black gaze falling to the whiskey in his hands. "Enough to warrant nightmares," the boy offered, "enough to drill the scent of death into my head," he continued, shifting his focus towards Astral.

“A very honest boy, you are,” the man raised a brow. He did not quite expect that answer, it would appear.

"Were you hoping for a tantrum?" Azhar asked, before proceeding. "Or do you want to continue, Astral? My glass is still full, so I may as well ventilate my many regrets." Though the expression on Azhar’s face betrayed little more than apathy, there was a sense of jest emanating from the boy’s statement. However, Astral stared at the young hero, not quite sure what went through the teenager’s mind. Indeed, Astral’s power allowed him to peer into someone’s past and learn everything about them with a mere look. Their joys, their fears, their sorrows.

“Is that why your father hates you, then?” The man asked, “because you personify darkness?”

Unable to stifle his laughter, Azhar shook his head. "My father hates me," the boy explained, "because I’m a monster. You’ve seen it all," a claw tapped the side of Azhar’s head, "wouldn’t you say?"

“You’re someone who is trying to escape his true nature,” Astral motioned towards Zee’s bracelet. “Why?”

Enjoying another sip of his drink, Azhar would admit that this was a good trade for what had previously been taken from him. A perfectly good energy drink. However, very little compared to the marvelous splendor that was whiskey. "Don’t you know that, already?" The mutant offered Astral a small, sharp-toothed grin. He had read the documents and was well aware about what this man was capable of. Nothing was a secret.

“I know that you’re afraid of yourself,” the man analyzed, “and I know that you’re trying to look like a hero for everyone else.” Allowing the statement to linger, Astral took another sip of his drink. It could very well have been his last. “What was it you said during that camping trip with your friends? You want to become famous, as to prove that even monsters can be heroes?”

Before setting foot in Astral’s office, Azhar was already prepared to have his mind probed. He had made sure to read through provided documents, and he was also aware that Astral had driven people to insanity. However, the hypothetical ball was on Azhar’s side. "It was something like that," the boy agreed.

Again, there was a pause. A lingering silence which Astral eventually broke. “You’re enjoying this,” he stated, seeing the small smirk bridging its way across Azhar’s lips. “You never did shy away from an interesting conversation, did you?”

"You tell me," Zee leaned against a cupboard, nursing the glass which rested between his slender, clawed digits. "Dive deep into my self-proclaimed philosophical mind and extract every embarrassing secret."

“Because you truly don’t mind,” Astral tapped a finger against his drink. “It is an act of control, your desire to.., what was it? ‘Own your shit’? Yes, that was it.” The man gently stirred his expensive beverage, its price enough to warrant awe. “Because nothing offends you, does it? No insults, no mind games.., your greatest enemy is the struggle constantly raging in here,” he tapped his temple. “To give in and unleash the full extent of your powers, or maintain discipline, and fight to protect those who fear you.”

"You give me too much credit," Azhar commented, with a chuckle. "But you are right about one thing, Astral," the boy’s abyssal orbs fixed themselves on the blue spheres joining the exchange. "Mind games are a waste of time. I wouldn’t join any of you, and you already know that," Zee stated, taking a step away from the cupboard. "Not because of some code or bullshit Hero’s oath," Requiem extended a claw, pointing it towards Astral, "but because if I decided to give in and become a bad boy, the last thing I’d ever do, would be leaving a single one of you alive."

“That’s what you really want, isn’t it?” Astral smirked, “you want to kill all the villains. An Anti-Hero.”

"You probably know the feeling, don’t you? That sickening feeling where you want to puke when you kill someone?" Azhar slowly approached the man, "but somewhere deep inside, buried in your heart.., is satisfaction."

“Is that how you felt when you killed the Warden in Mexico?” Astral remained leaning against the desk, unmoving. “When you helped save the friends you’re forcing yourself to like.” Despite knowing how this meeting would end, there was a twisted sense of joy washing over Astral, being able to speak to someone who so freely expressed the dark desires within. “Oh, you were so delighted.., a man who could copy another’s powers and there you were, presenting yours as if a gift.” Again, there was a pause, but one which remained for a brief breath. “Before you watched him melt into a puddle in response to venturing upon the majesty that are your powers.”

Running those clawed digits through his bangs, Azhar enjoyed another sip. He would make sure to confiscate that whiskey bottle by the end of this. "You know, my biggest fear was expressing those pesky homosexual feelings inside," a claw gently placed itself on Astral’s chest. "Because I was afraid that my mother would cast me aside." Azhar’s slender hand moved, tracing a path across Astral’s torso and towards his cheek where it then lingered. "I was afraid that the other Heroes wouldn’t accept me for being a fucking monster, either," Zee leaned closer, his black eyes now inches from Astral’s own. "But in the end.., who gives a fuck? Right?"

“Own your shit..,” Astral commented, clenching his teeth slightly as his heart rate accelerated.

"Because no one else will..," the boy finished, Necrotic energy escaping his hand, before Astral fell onto the floor. Taking another sip of his whiskey, Azhar finished the drink. "Your conversation’s over."

💀 Brookside.
💀 Warehouse 9.

💀 Evening.

💀 None.

It had been a pleasant evening which proceeded down a path of increased frustration. What began with a trip to the store, thoughts of a cold, refreshing beverage circling the mutant’s mind, had now brought him towards the evening’s ultimate act. Leaving Doctor Viven behind wasn’t something Azhar could easily forgive himself for, either. He had abandoned good company, and delicious food, all the result of a villain’s schemes. They were neverending, and one would be forgiven for believing that the rise in Heroes demanded balance in increased crime. Where those with powers stood against injustice, there were individuals who sought to challenge the notion. It wasn’t always due to a contradicting ideal, but sometimes the mere notion of clashing with fire and steel was in itself a call to arms.

Exiting his car, Azhar gently closed the door. A sleek, black vehicle afforded him by HERO. It paid off, as they said, to be a high ranking soldier, but as Zee’s foot felt gravel brushing against its sole, the young crime-fighter’s gaze turned towards a large, red title. Warehouse 9, text which indicated his location in an assertive display, each letter twisting and folding across a ribbed wall.

It was an inconvenience but certainly expected. Seeing metal coating every surface removed the element of surprise. Azhar was required to enter the building through a door, where he much preferred a less obvious approach, there was little else that could be done. Circling the warehouse, Azhar paused before lowering himself to a knee. Hidden behind a large gathering of crates, the dark Hero peered ahead. Pistols and assault rifles, hostile targets had made sure to maintain care. They were guarding the loading bay, indicating that a shipment was imminent. The presence of trucks parked along a wide stretch further strengthened this assumption.

Yielding to patience, Azhar waited. He had to be considerate, and most definitely careful. Astral tinkered with mind-control. His drugs afforded him slaves, and a bracelet rendering the young Hero’s powers non-lethal was not enough to allow for a chaotic approach. They were still innocent human beings. However, no plan ever survived contact with the enemy, and Azhar was prepared to improvise. Forcing innocent individuals into unconsciousness for a handful of hours was preferable than putting them in the line of fire.

“Alright, let’s get this done,” came a masculine voice which trickled across the silent evening air. It was soon followed by several boxes loaded into a truck. A closer look would reveal that this manual labor was performed by individuals dressed in everyday clothes, with no weapons, nor notable trinkets available for combat. Further inspection indicated lifeless eyes, staring ahead dimly as each movement mimicked a routine.

"Astral’s using his drug-slaves as workers?" Azhar pondered, before moving from his position. "I need to stop that shipment," he decided. Turning his attention towards the driver’s seat, Azhar noticed how the window was open, with a man smoking a cigarette, and blowing the puffs out from the truck. "The first puzzle piece." Hiding behind another crate, the boy focused on his target and conjured forth a spectral force. The ghostly, emerald presence licked past its victim, following a cigarette that fell onto the asphalt, as the driver slumped forward. "That’s one," Azhar frowned, turning towards the remaining two guards who stood by the entrance.

“Alright, we’re done here. Get moving,” a gangster commented as he motioned ahead. There was, however, no response. Neither was there movement. “The fuck?” An annoyed sighed escaped the man’s lips before he ventured across the loading bay and approached the truck. “Dude!” He exclaimed.

"That’s two..," Azhar whispered, as Necrotic Force breathed itself into existence around the man’s shape. A mere moment later shifted his state into unconsciousness. "And three," the deathly mutant smirked, lifting his hand towards the third guard to mimic the very motions from before, preventing a reaction which would have given away the boy’s position.

Approaching a fallen guard, Azhar reached into the man’s pocket and produced a keycard. So far, the mission had proceeded smoothly. Patience was a virtue, truly. Raising the card towards a scanner, he noted a sound which was soon followed by the color red turning green. This allowed for Azhar to press a large, circular button that slowly lifted a cargo door. He made sure to open it just enough, before quietly slipping inside.

As he had previously expected, several civilians worked in packaging drugs. If he knew anything about these setups, every tightly wrapped block carried one kilo. Following the progress already started, Azhar continued to rely on stealth. Indeed, he could combat these guards easily enough, as long as he relied on cover from their bullets, but allowing that chaos to take place would instead result in the risk of innocent people dying. A mere look into the warehouse would indicate their presence.

"Now, where is Astral?" Came a thought as Azhar continued to move through the massive interior. He did come across more guards, however. Luckily, silence lingered, and he was able to neutralize them without noteworthy complications. Turning towards the metal stairs by a corner wall leading towards a second floor, Zee fluidly moved up those steps until he finally found himself in a corridor. Several doors stretched across its narrow shape, and as Requiem delved deeper, he soon stopped.

“You took your time,” a voice struck at the boy, earning his attention before Azhar carefully opened a door which allowed sight of a decorated office. “My guards would have just let you come and see me, you know.” On a chair sat a man clad in what could only have been defined as an elegant suit. His short, blonde hair was styled, and a cigarette rested between his lips. Piercing blue eyes peered ahead, and Azhar’s focus found itself transfixed. “Please, have a seat,” the man who went by Astral offered, motioning towards the comfortable chair in front of his office desk.

"You knew?" Zee asked, stepping inside before he closed the door behind him.

“Of course,” Astral tapped his temple, “knowledge is my trade, my boy,” a small grin made itself known upon the man’s lips. “Besides,” he continued before standing, “a fight with you wouldn’t exactly end well for me, would it?” Astral chuckled, opening a wooden, mahogany cupboard and produced two glasses, followed by a bottle of whiskey.

"So you invite me over for a drink?" The deathly mutant raised a brow, spectral energy now dimly emanating from his frame. "You can save your speech."

“Come now,” Astral poured them a serving of golden brown liquid, “we both know what you look like, so why not take that mask off?” He exhaled a small puff of smoke, “this meeting will end at your behest, so the least you can do is entertain a conversation, no?”

There was a slight pause, before Azhar eventually pulled his hood down, followed by his mask. Zee had no secret identity, and as far as he was concerned, the whiskey wasn’t poisoned. Astral had taken a sip himself. "How proper of you," the boy offered, his claws clicking against the glass which had been offered.

“With a thought,” Astral began, “I can lay unconscious on this here floor,” he motioned towards the carpeted surface beneath them. “And perfectly good whiskey would simply.., soak in,” came a sigh. “You know this, so I do appreciate the mercy,” Astral took another sip. “You’re not a savage, Azhar. It is uncommon for Heroes to present.., civility.”

"Because trusting villains with a conversation tends to end well," Zee managed a dry joke, and raised an eyebrow. "But I can’t very well enjoy a glass of whiskey while they’re ripping your fingers off in Coldwater," Azhar brought the glass to his lips. "So you have until I finish this drink."

💀 Ristorante de Luce.
💀 Mission Start.

💀 Evening.

💀 @taylorquest
💀 None.

As had been established, Azhar sought to enjoy his day off. A pursuit of relaxation, and in this case, social interaction. He had been doing well in that regard, a development in which the phantasmal boy could pat himself on the shoulder. Indeed, the moment spent with Doctor Vivien Valis was a cherished exchange. Alas, all good things must come to an end, as they say. Where a desire to indulge in the blissful nectar that was a soda mix circled Azhar’s mind, the mutant was forced to yield. Despite what some may have thought, and beyond the boy’s own insecurities, a Hero presented himself, a young man with responsibilities. What did a day off truly mean? It meant that Azhar, or Zee, stood on standby, simply awaiting a call before being sent into the boiling pot, once again.

He could not recall the last official mission executed with other Heroes, but rather found himself on solo assignments constantly. One would, however, be mistaken in assuming Azhar’s longing for teamwork. The moments spent with his fellow Heroes had been disastrous. They didn’t formulate plans, they most certainly didn’t work together in a noteworthy capacity, and they bickered all the time. If anything, the deathly mutant was surprised that they hadn’t all found themselves at the mercy of a villain, due to lacking tactics.

Azhar was not an impressive tactician. He was not a leader, and he was not used to working with others. However, at the very least, he could admit towards attempting the feat. The others were, as Americans tended to say, ‘Loose Cannons’. Azhar adored maintaining a more relaxed disposition amidst the dangers of a life-threatening mission. However, betting his continued existence on fellow Heroes more preoccupied with property damage than a professional approach was not Azhar’s idea of a good time.

Mission - Neutralize and Capture.
Villain - Astral, further information included.
Rank - B+.
Location - Warehouse 9, location mapped.
Lethality - Non-Lethal approach.
Power Restriction - None, but discretion required.

Reaching for his cellphone in response to a beeping sound that trickled into Azhar’s ears, the boy’s eyes fell to the screen, which accompanied a heavy sigh. Indeed a day off meant nothing more than remaining ready and waiting, until eventual disaster struck. Such was the life of a Hero, no matter how obscure, or withdrawn. Within the message, a document had been attached revealing in-depth information on the target dubbed ‘Astral’ and his abilities. It was nothing Azhar could adequately afford attention, while at a restaurant when engaged in company, however. "I am so sorry, Doctor Valis," Zee commented, clawed fingers moving towards his forehead where they gently rubbed the boy’s pale-white skin. "I’ve been called for," came a sigh. Azhar couldn’t simply deny the request. It didn’t quite work, like that. If he was sent a mission, he was expected to deliver. The only acceptable excuse was being stuck in a hospital bed with blood leaking from open wounds.

Rising to his feet, Azhar showed Doctor Vivien Valis the text he had received. "Some guy named Astral," he explained, before slipping the phone into his pocket. If he was allowed to use the entirety of his powers, it meant that this villain was quite powerful, even if his rank was a high B. Underestimating this opponent due to a letter strung along the exact same downfall that Azhar criticized his fellow co-workers for. It was irresponsible. "We’ll have to rain-check this dinner," the mutant managed a soft smile, "it was really nice meeting you!" Azhar finished, before making haste in exiting the restaurant which would otherwise have offered him a lovely evening.

A Hero first, and foremost. It was something the mutant often stumbled across. The mission came first, always. It was why he questioned the decision of settling into a relationship when loyalty to your spouse came second. Perhaps a rather fanatical approach, but one Azhar truly believed in. He was willing to abandon his own desires accompanying a normal, everyday life, for the task at hand. There would always be an assignment present, and there would most certainly always be a villain seeking to harm others. A clouded or preoccupied mind had no place on the battlefield, something any soldier would have been able to affirm.

Upon reaching his home, Azhar slipped inside, closed the door, and proceeded to analyze the mission parameters on a more comfortable screen. His laptop. As per usual, a myriad of information was presented. Astral’s real name, his past, his skills, and powers. Naturally, his illegal operation was equally so afforded the Hero tasked with halting its progress. "A mind-controlling drug," the phantasmal mutant frowned "why is everyone obsessed with creating an army?" It wasn’t the first time Zee had come across something like this. Create a drug, disguise it as any common street substance, and gain complete control over whoever takes it. "I’ll be going up against a lot of mind-jacked civilians," the boy rubbed his chin. Hugo Powers’ demand for discretion made all the more sense, now.

Rising from his computer chair, Azhar approached his closet where everyday clothes were soon replaced by a suit, the thing that symbolized Requiem. An unknown Hero mainly considered ‘cool’ amongst teenaged outsiders, Requiem possessed powers far darker than the public had seen. Without that bracelet circling Azhar’s forearm, there was no way for him to maintain the role of Hero. Clenching those sharp teeth at the thought, Zee reached for his mask, a black skull, and covered his spectral face. Dark or light, it mattered little in the grand scheme of things. He had a mission, and Warehouse 9 was located in Brookside, the easiest location to manufacture and sell drugs. A location where eager buyers, and in this case, slaves, waited around every street corner. Placing his hand on the doorknob, Azhar turned towards his cat, the deathly mutant granting the creature a soft smile behind his obfuscating visage, before finally stepping outside.

💀 Ristorante de Luce.

💀 Evening.

💀 @taylorquest

Azhar recalled the drink ‘Roy Rogers’. He had yet to imbibe, however. Perhaps somewhat unfair towards an otherwise excellent beverage. Cola and grenadine syrup did sound like a winning combination, something the spectral boy found incredibly appealing. It did prompt him to consider all the various, interesting options that continuously made themselves known before him, but Zee was far too busy extending a clawed hand towards that of which had grown somewhat familiar. Perhaps it was time to put aside that Java Monster Energy drink, and maintain focus on that which had yet to be experienced.

"I’ll have the same," came a spectral voice in response, Azhar’s sharp-toothed smile shifting towards their waiter. A young man dressed in the obligatory combination of dress shirt and tie, his winning smile the most important part of such an attire. It would be a lie to claim that Zee’s attention merely brushed past their water, before shifting back towards Doctor Vivien Valis. The phantasmal teen was nearly twenty years of age, and his thoughts of recent had been clinging to more intimate venues.

It was difficult to deduce whether these interests were founded in a desire to hold someone close, or simple curiosity. Azhar often claimed that a person in their position, a Hero, as it were, should not reasonably find themselves in such circumstances. Relationships for a Hero tended towards the same end, which appeared to maintain a similar theme. Chaos. Though Azhar was unknown, it would be foolish to claim that he didn’t have enemies. The boy was a high A Tier Hero, someone who had been sent on missions earning him notable rivals in the process. Involving a hapless lover in that constant battlefield was not only naive, but cruel.

"I think I have a more active singing career than Scary Spice," Azhar commented, changing the direction of his thoughts towards what Doctor Valis had stated. It was a joke, one met by jest, in turn, which was evident by Azhar’s lingering smirk. It was commonplace to consider the young man’s expression somewhat disturbing, those sharp teeth meeting an onlooker as a less flamboyant presentation of the Cheshire Cat. However, this woman, Doctor Viven Valis seemed far more interested in what resided beyond the mysterious surface which had managed to split an audience in two. Those who would rather avert their gaze, and those who found Azhar’s appearance intriguing. Claws, fangs, abyssal eyes, a tail, and his phantasmal voice all spoke of a less than family-friendly nature. However, it was something the young Hero wished to change. It was the reason why he wanted to reach some level of fame. Perhaps that way, he could prove to the world that being a monster wasn’t bad. He could teach both kids and adults alike that actions define you, no matter what skin you wore.

"And what about you, Doctor Valis?" Azhar continued, resting his chin against a slender hand. "What do you do for fun?" Zee asked, clearly enjoying their exchange. It had been a while since he was able to engage in a conversation like this. Work had confiscated nearly all of his free time, and ever since he was ordered by Powers to reach for a more social disposition, Azhar’s experiences with his fellow Heroes had been a hit or miss. Though, despite the boy’s more fun-loving personality, he would admit that interactions similar to this had more charm than trying to make himself heard amongst ten others, each one clawing for attention.

"I sing at the Red Lion Bar every Friday, if you want front-row seats," Azhar stated with a slight chuckle, "I’ve actually performed here, too," the boy motioned towards a vacant stage at the other end of the dining room. "I sang ‘Bang Bang’, a few weeks ago." Azhar finished, the expression on his face indicating a sense of longing. Singing was an escape for him, a time where he could forget about the surrounding world and just be the center of attention. A scene where he could abandon all of his issues in lieu of freedom. A monster on stage, someone who loved the spotlight, and someone who proudly presented all that he was. "Bang, bang, my baby shot me down," the mutant grinned, winking at the woman in front of him, reciting a line from the song.

💀 Ristorante de Luce.

💀 Evening.

💀 @taylorquest

An unexpected development, but certainly not unwelcomed. Azhar’s black eyes turned towards a co-worker he had witnessed, though never quite interacted with. He did, however, recall her name, if the boy wasn’t mistaken. "Doctor..," Zee began, a smile bridging its way across his pale lips as he spoke. Though a brief moment passed before completing the handle, Azhar’s expression remained. Whatever reputation he may have shouldered at H.E.R.O, an interaction could very well dispel misconceptions. "Valis," the late-teen finished, before motioning towards his waiter. It was a clear indicator that this woman was going to accompany the young hero, which was evident following their guided path towards a table.

A pleasant restaurant by any measure, Azhar leaned back in his seat, the boy’s abyssal gaze lowering to a menu which he had been presented. In truth, the nineteen-year-old much preferred the company of those older than himself. Perhaps it was an expected disposition, as he stood on the cusp of being a man. Less than a year remained until he finally turned twenty. It was no wonder then that others within the bracket of ‘teenager’ may have had a tendency of being branded somewhat obnoxious. It was simply the way of things.

One could also indicate that Azhar was forced to mature rather quickly, his state of mind the product of a less than accepting world. Of course, it would be foolish to state that everyone older than Azhar, or ‘Requiem’ in the public eye, maintained any level of respectable behavior by virtue of their age. While entertaining and most certainly delightful company, a certain Hero by the name of Blake, or more appropriately ‘Firebird’ was known for his less than wise and collected take on conversations. At least he had a pretty face.

"It’s nice to meet you in a less..," Azhar raised a claw, motioning towards the restaurant’s welcoming interior, "professional setting," came a playful grin, Zee’s shark-like teeth making themselves known. It was quite easy to melt into the soothing music trickling into serene air from background speakers, a blanket that laid itself across an already blissful scene. "I sometimes tune out at HERO One," a spiked, slender black digit came to gently tap Azhar’s temple following his accented words, the boy’s Middle Eastern heritage clearly identified. "Though, Powers have ordered me to be more social," Zee chuckled, his spectral, ethereal voice earning itself attention as an aberrant addition to the restaurant patronage. "And sadly, he refuses to go clubbing with me," the mutant exhaled a theatrical sigh. "A Spice Girls sing-along would help in loosening him up, you know?"

💀 Zee’s Apartment.
💀 Ristorante de Luce.

💀 Evening.

💀 None.

With that blank, prolonged stare which had, at this point, bored a hole through Azhar’s computer, the pale-skinned mutant inhaled a sharp breath. He did not expect a conversation with his mother to net an ending like that. She had always been a rather playful individual, and it was quite obvious where Azhar’s personality had found itself inspired. However, claiming acceptance and understanding from his home country had been a laborious task. Whereas the first fifteen years of his life warranted the nickname Devil from more than a single source, Azhar wasn’t going to add further scandals onto an already fragile image.

It was quite a shift, he was willing to admit, when stepping onto American soil. The Devil had been translated into Requiem, a hero that while unknown, seemed somewhat popular amongst the less socially inclined. When seeing an image ripped from his likeness presented on a t-shirt in Hot Topic, Zee recalled merely laughing at the find. There was no anger expressed from the monstrous young man, and nor was there fear aimed towards him. It was endearing. Plagiarism, but endearing. In fact, he bought the t-shirt, and earned an odd look in the process, one met by a sharp-toothed grin.

Indeed, things had changed. Though he found himself in America, the land of opportunity as they said, it would be a lie to claim that Azhar’s mind had followed long. The same fears remained, whether it was based around his powers, appearance, or sexuality. ’Own your shit,’ a tagline the young hero lived by, and one he often dismissed when met by adversity. It would soon be replaced by ’You are a fucking joke,’ before circling back to the previous, once Azhar had managed to douse his insecurities in Energy Drinks, soda, and candy.

Clenching his teeth, Azhar reached for the mouse at his side. Claws did not work well with a pad, it would appear. Opening the emoji window in Discord, he hovered the cursor over a heart symbol, silently staring at it. "Own your shit..," he sighed, those black eyes closing as thoughts began to circle his mind. There was a noticeable tension which washed over him, the boy’s clawed hand gripping the mouse in desperation before eventually managing a breath. "Ya’ ibn el sharmoota," came an Arabic utterance, something which quite literally translated into ‘Son of a bitch’. Accompanying the small, barely visible smirk displayed upon his pale lips, Azar closed the emoji window.
’Thanks, mom,’ the boy wrote, followed by that symbol which had been nagging him ever since opening the small pop-up square where a red heart intently stared back into those abyssal orbs. He pressed Enter.

Inhaling a long, deep breath, Azhar closed the laptop screen, his eyes shifting towards Dracula who had been lazily stretching out across the ghostly creature’s bed. Though a desire to lay down and delve into a world of dreams appeared nearly intoxicating, the rumbling in Azhar’s scrawny belly begged to differ. The mutant wasn’t good at taking care of himself. This much even the cat could attest to. Some days, he ate like a glutton, while hours could pass of another without the young hero even considering a meal. Least of all a healthy one. Though, yet again, Azhar would insist that all food was merely energy, to him. Good or bad, his powers treated it all the same, abandoning discrimination. While appearing like an excuse, it was, in fact, the truth. Azhar could eat another human being raw if the situation demanded, and it may as well have been a burger. Though, that thought was quickly discarded in disgust.

Yes, the mutant truly was a monster. Though, as he often told himself, a monster was nothing inherently bad. It all amounted to what a freak like him decided to do with their abilities. A single look towards his closet would reveal a black, ominous outfit used during missions, with a skull mask obfuscating his face. It was a statement, loud and clear. A statement which assessed that heroism didn’t wear a specific cape, and that good was born from actions, not the shell exacting them.

"Alright, screw this," Zee stood, his slender arms stretching above his head as the boy groaned. "Don’t destroy the place, Dracula," Azhar pointed a claw at the cat where it lazily splayed out, that monstrous feline a perfect reflection of its owner. "Or God help me, ba’mellak schelektak," the Arabian mutant smirked.

Slipping into a jacket to prevent a growing nip in the air from chilling his tender skin, Azhar pushed the door open, careful not to slam it on his tail again, before affording his beloved feline friend a quick farewell. Ristorante de Luce, it was close by, and the dark hero had frequented the establishment on several occasions. When a decent salary was accompanied by a cheap apartment and barely any bills, a lazy young man like Azhar could afford to eat out far more often than he should. It was what brought him down the side-walk, hands gently resting within his pockets as he proceeded across the stretch of an evening path.

Ristorante de Luce, a mere ten-minute walk from where Azhar called home, displayed its proud presence with a title expanded over the door. Pushing it open, Zee stepped inside, claws running through his black, messy hair before noting a waiter approaching him.

💀 Zee’s Apartment.

💀 Evening.

💀 None.

The fridge was comparable to a wasteland, not because Azhar’s salary was negligible, nor because he didn’t require food. He most certainly did. However, the boy was a worthless chef. At nineteen years of age, he was able to microwave dinner, or turn the knob on an oven, but when five solid minutes of dedication found itself mandatory in the production of a day’s meal, it was usually met by little more than a groan. A closer look would reveal more packets of blood in Azhar’s fridge, than actual food, a sight Dracula, the monster cat, was quick to engage. "Don’t rip it open!" The mutant exclaimed, swiping the packet before closing the door with a soft clang of soda bottles erupting from the contact. "Come, you fucking blood thirsty fiend..," Azhar managed a quiet sigh, his obsidian orbs turning towards the four-eyed cat eagerly leaping towards its bowl.

It was unclear whether the experiments conducted on Dracula had raised the feline’s intellect, but the time spent with this creature surely indicated that development. Dracula appeared to not only understand what Azhar was saying, but also acted in ways considered uncommon, or rather unnatural for a house cat. The mutant often uttered an explanation in jest, claiming that his cat was spliced with a dog, which a single deduction could easily dispel. Something had been done to the creature, and calling Dracula a cat, still, was perhaps more out of the ordinary than the creature he had become. Even so, Azhar found a certain irony in considering the creature little more than a house cat.

Tearing open the blood packet, Azhar poured its contents into a bowl portraying its purpose through the paw print displayed upon its shape. The vampiric feline scarcely waited before its barbed, red tongue went to work on lapping up all that Vitamin D. With a stretch, Azhar yawned, his own cherished drink brought to his lips for a long, grateful sip. It was no Java Monster Energy, but it worked. A less desirable outcome, but one the deathly creature could very much enjoy when abandoning thoughts of a lost prize.

Azhar’s apartment was a small spectacle, little more than a square offering the necessities of a bed, computer desk, kitchen, and bathroom. When every aspect except the very last were built together into a single room, one could not complain about effectiveness. Every inch had been used, and not a section forgotten. With another sip, Azhar dropped to his computer chair and opened the program Discord which he had used to speak with his parents three times per week. It was his mother who mainly dedicated time to the exchange, where Azhar’s father often found himself busy. It was quite fair, however. Azhar never considered himself close with his male parent, and rather enjoyed conversing with Ayla, instead. A woman who had been present throughout his life.

Shifting his gaze towards a digital clock, Azhar opened the program before being nearly attacked by the sound of a ringing phone. She had been waiting for him. “Habibi!” The woman’s voice trickled through Azhar’s laptop, “kifak, ya’ ibne’?”

"I’m alright, mom," Azhar took a swig of his drink, seeing his mother’s expression shifting on the screen. Their video conversations left little to be hidden.

“Baa’dak ab’ tishrab.., what do you call them..,” she shifted to English, the woman’s thick Arabic accent draping every word, “Ennerjee’ Drinks?”

"Don’t worry mom, they won’t kill me," came a response from the younger hero, before seeing his mother’s head shaking in disapproval. He had been told, throughout his life, to avoid junk food. Going to America did not help in that endeavour, but at the very least, food had little effect on Azhar. Good and bad.

Eventually displaying a grin, the woman relieved a heavy sigh, “how is Amerrika’?” The boy’s mother leaned back in her seat. “Is it still mabrook?”

"Still beautiful, yes," Zee echoed his parent’s expression, his sharp teeth coming into view. Their conversation continued, one pleasantry following the other as an hour proceeded to pass. Azhar told his mother of the robbery he had managed to stop, but left out the most critical part. His drink didn’t survive the ordeal, a loss he couldn’t possibly impart.

“So have you found someone, yet?” A question slinked through the laptop, along with a playful wink from Alya.

For a moment, Zee’s cheeks darkened, and the young man turned his attention elsewhere, "you know I don’t have time for that, mom."

“Oh, is that it?” She chuckled, before affording her son a grin, “or are there just not enough.., mahdoomeen.., uh.., cute guys in America?”

"I mean, some of them are cu-.., WHAT!?" The exclamation was born through shock. It wasn’t what had been asked that nearly caused Azhar to fall off his chair, but rather, who had asked the question.

“Oh, look at the time, I have to go, habibi!” Alya playfully sent a kiss through the camera before ending the call, leaving her son staring blankly at the screen. As far as he knew, his parents were left in the dark. They wouldn’t understand, he told himself. Indeed, he had told ’himself.’ Perhaps he hadn’t given his mother enough credit.

💀 7-Eleven Store.
💀 East Flank.

💀 Evening.

💀 None.

For the past two years, since joining H.E.R.O, Azhar had taken the role of a background character. He didn’t go on missions with others, and outside of scarce moments spent with his coworkers, Azhar barely knew those he called teammates. One could say that it had been a deliberate decision, this social but paradoxically reclusive boy maintaining a withdrawn disposition. Could one truly blame this exotic creature, however? Azhar, or Zee, still recalled the days where he was called ’L’shaitan’, The Devil. Thinking back on his earlier days managed to conjure forth a slight chuckle, but they spoke of public acceptance. Someone like Azhar wasn’t a Hero. His bracelet allowed for him to adopt this role, but without it, there was no possibility to maintain the act. Picturing the days before he was blessed by deliberate the shackle hugging his slender forearm exposed images left forgotten. Images revealing the boy’s true nature, something pacified by current circumstances.

Shaking the thoughts from his head, Azhar’s focus found its mark, no longer obfuscated by thoughts of the past. Management, that being Mr. Hugo Powers, had taken the boy into his office recently. ’You are part of the brand. You can’t keep hiding in the shadows forever.’ Whether it was an undisturbed quote from the man, or Azhar’s own interpretation was growing less discernible by the day. However, Azhar was able to fill in whatever blanks lingered following his conversation with Mr. Powers. The boy had maintained a backstage role, because his powers didn’t quite fit in with the rest. Majestic Fire, Mystical Gravity, a Siren’s Song, a Sovereign of Water, and more. As if the Greek pantheon given life and presented to the public. Among them, Azhar was Hades, his ironically favorite God, but one considered evil at worse, and dark at best.

Typically, none of this would bother the Middle Easterner. With a shrug, he would offer one of Zee’s trademarked, sharp-toothed grins, and claim that his powers were his own, and they served the purpose he had set out for them. Recent scenarios somewhat toyed with this disposition, however.

He could no longer hide behind that coy presentation. He was expected to mingle with his fellow Heroes, and Mr. Powers wasn’t known for saying his piece, followed by simply discarding it. No, when Hugo Powers presented a demand, a Hero was expected to oblige. ’This is America, after all, where the dark is Edgy, rather than frowned upon,’ Azhar often thought. For such a self-confident and steadfast individual, being a part of something bigger seemed oddly intimidating. One would be forgiven for mistaking it stage fright, a disturbance this bar singer hadn’t felt in years.

Perhaps that was why something as simple as a Java Monster Energy drink meant so much. It was the simplicity of it, and the familiarity of its chilled, cold presence. The drink had been a comfort, something to divorce Azhar from the expectations now placed on him. To ’play nice with the real Heroes’. Now, that comfort was drenching the floor, the cream-colored substance spreading across those tiles like a darkening cloud.

It was an escape, a fix. Azhar wanted his favorite beverage in an attempt to dismiss growing insecurities, if only for a brief moment. Something which had now been taken away from him. "Come on, Dracula," the boy spoke, his faint Arabic accent trickling through those ghostly words.

“Th-thanks!” A stuttering, disheveled young woman managed as she stood, eyes falling to the burglars unconcious upon her workplace floor. “I’ve..,” she breathed, “I’ve called the police.”

Affording the clerk a soft nod, Azhar paused. His favorite drink had been robbed of him, but he could pick something else. A substitute. Turning back towards the fridge as Dracula leaped onto Azhar’s shoulder, the boy wrapped his clawed fingers around the handle, and pulled the door open. A wintery, pleasant chill ran over his exposed skin, Zee’s alien-like black eyes falling on another option. "Good," came a response, if somewhat late as the mutant approached. Three cans of Pipeline Punch in all of its pink glory had been placed by the cash register before Azhar reached a hand into his shoulder bag.

“Wait, no!” The clerk exclaimed, “it’s on the house, I mean..,” she motioned towards the scene, “you did the thing.”

"The.., thing?" Azhar raised a thin, black brow as he watched the clerk bagging his drinks.

“You did the Hero thing, dude!” There was a delay in Azhar’s response, the boy’s raven gaze lingering on the young woman. She continued before he was allowed a chance to speak. “I haven’t seen you on TV or anything, though,” she explained. “You work for H.E.R.O?”

With his clawed, demonic fingers resting on the counter, Azhar would eventually raise his digits towards that plastic bag and accepted the gift he had been offered. "Yeah, I do."

“Cool!” Came an excited response. A blatant shift in demeanor, to be sure, from scared for her life to basking in the safety of having a Hero so close. “What’s your Hero name!?”

Managing an appreciative expression, the ghostly boy was unable to hide his sharp-toothed smile. "Requiem," he answered. A fitting name, one related to Death.

“Sweet! Can I have an autograph?” Incredibly unexpected, but not an unwelcomed request, one which brought laughter from the Arabic boy, before he obliged. Tracing the tip of a pencil across a blank, white surface, Azhar wrote his Heroic handle in both English and Fusha, the written form of Arabic, before sliding the haphazardly picked gift card back to its owner.

Only a fool would have missed the gathering crowd outside the 7-Eleven, however, the sound of a gunshot bringing far more observers than the police. Many with a cellphone ready, and recording. "I should, uh..," Azhar thumbed towards the door.

“Oh, yeah! Thanks, again!” The clerk finished, seeing the dark mutant slip out of the store, before bringing her phone up to open a chat window.

💀 7-Eleven Store.
💀 East Flank.

💀 Evening.

💀 None.

Obsidian claws traced their shape across a row of aluminum bottles, black eyes carefully deducing what had been printed onto their cold, chilled surface. Monster Energy, Pipeline Punch, Java Monster. It was at the third option where those claws halted their advance, gently clicking against the metallic surface before a bottle was pulled from its confines. ’They told him don't you ever come around here, don’t wanna’ see your face, you better disappear..,’ Azhar slowly bobbed his head in response to the music trickling into his pointed ears. It was, in fact, quite uncommon to see him without his earbuds firmly planted into place. On those days off, one could not blame the boy for enjoying life’s more casual pursuits, which in itself indicated his current presence at a 7-Eleven during the golden embrace of a setting sun. It was when comfort replaced annoyance, when that massive sphere of radiance dove beneath the horizon as time dictated.

Indeed, Radiance, an ironic word, considering Azhar’s name which translated into just that. He had often asked his parents about this peculiar decision, naming a boy with an aversion to the sun, whose powers dipped into death and decay Radiance. The response he had been afforded was generally along the line of a grin, often accompanied by laughter. ’La’an enta dao hayati.’ Because you are the light of my life, an answer which bridged a tender smile across Azhar’s pale lips. His mother had always been a warm presence for the boy, an embrace he missed, and one he oftentimes recalled.

One could not blame a teenager for the universal desire to witness life, to experience the world, something which was locked away from Azhar during his time in Lebanon. A dead-end, as he called it. However, the bird’s longing for their ancestral home would always be present, long after they spread their wings. For Azhar, it was no different. America afforded him an experience incomparable by the rest of the world, which also strung along the small pleasantries in life. Indeed, the dark mutant was thankful for his inability to gain weight or the countless flavors his shark-like teeth had bit into would undoubtedly have netted him an un-hero like weight, by now. Granted, the scrawny and underweight body he did, in fact, posses wasn’t much better. However, that was one aspect of himself the boy couldn’t change. He had often been told that he possessed fearsome powers, but they came at a cost.

Raising a clawed hand towards the creature perched upon his shoulder, Azhar, or rather Zee as he was so often called in the States, tenderly combed those sharp digits through Dracula’s fur. A curious cat that had found itself in the boy’s care following its rescue. A dark creature with wings, razor teeth, and quite notably, four glowing, green eyes. As if made for each other, the two were a troupe. A duo clearly fitting a theme, something Azhar was well aware of. ’Own your shit, a statement often uttered by the goth-life entity that was Zee.

"Just one left, huh?" Came a sigh, Azhar’s attention lingering on that empty space which had only moments prior been confiscated by the Monster Energy drink in his hand. At the very least, the downside to his powers allowed him to eat whatever junk food he wanted without an effect. It wouldn’t make him feel any better, and it certainly wouldn’t make him feel any worse. Closing the fridge, Zee turned towards the cash register where a clerk sat toying with their cellphone, something which would likely be unacceptable by any customer who cared just a tad more than this particular mutant.

It was when Azhar had reached the snack aisle that the boy stopped, his stride halting but not because those raven eyes fixed themselves on a Pringles can, but rather because he heard the door open, followed by a click. A sound he was aware of, and one he often heard when he wasn’t off. "Please, not now..," the boy cringed, before he peeked around a shelf.

“You know what to do,” came a voice belonging to a hooded individual with gun in hand. A Glock, if Azhar had paid any attention during class, or simply watched enough movies.

“I..,” the store clerk tried, a trembling teenager no older than seventeen, working a part-time job, likely because her parents forced her into the notion of responsibility.

Turning his attention towards Dracula who had leaped down from Azhar’s shoulder, the mutant eyed his friend’s many, glowing emeralds. An air of frustration washed over him, before the Hero finally revealed himself. It was with a simple, nearly nonchalant swipe of his hand that Azhar conjured forth a spectral presence that engulfed the criminal who had singlehandedly put an end to Azhar’s calm, relaxing evening. Ghostly energy circled the man, licking over him as if a spell that had been cast, before he fell limply to the ground. A keen eye would have been able to spot the bracelet clasped around Azhar’s thin forearm, a futuristic trinket which afforded a dim, blue glow in response to his power, a glow which vanished in echo with the energy conjured forth.

"He’ll wake up in a few hou-..," Azhar began, before hearing a loud gunshot ringing out across the small store. It was through mere instinct that the boy stumbled back behind the shelves, and tripped on Dracula where the cat had been standing. Plummeting to the floor, a frustrated groan left the teen Hero, something which would develop into a whine once he noticed just where the bullet had struck.

Any normal individual with their senses intact would have considered themselves lucky. A single bullet was enough to end a life, but for Azhar, total misery replaced relief as he felt the cold, creamy substance previously contained with the Monster Energy drink flow down his hand, and onto the floor.

With widened eyes, the mutant slowly turned the can around. Less than an inch down and his hand would have been shot, but even so, Azhar’s sense of loss had reached its peak. "Oh no..," the boy uttered, his eyes nearly watering in response to his lost prize.

Clenching his teeth, the mutant rose to his feet. He had made a fatal mistake this evening, by not analyzing the area before acting. There had been two robbers, not just one. The other had been waiting outside, keeping an eye out for passersby. A lookout who had now drawn their gun and aimed it into the store. “What did you do to him, you freak!?” A loud shout rang through, followed by careful footsteps.

"That was the last one..," Azhar clenched his fist, those claws nearly digging into his palm as he looked down towards the now empty Java Monster Energy drink. Raising his eyes towards the clerk, Azhar noticed how she had hidden, and it brought the boy back to his senses. At least one of them had their wits undisturbed. "Do you fucking know.., what you’ve just done?" Zee seethed, listening for the robber as they were slowly approaching their fallen friend with gun still raised.

“Fuck you, dude!” Came a response as fingers desperately moved towards the fallen robber’s throat, to feel a pulse that remained undamaged.

"I came to this country..," Azhar began, spectral energy now brimming from him, "to beat the shit out of bad guys, and enjoy your unhealthy fucking drinks," the Middle Easterner explained, that ghastly force now concentrating around his right hand. "You just took away one of those things." There was no response, but rather a terrified expression that met the mutant once he finally revealed himself. It was a quick motion, one birthed from knowing that his enemy held a firearm. However, it mattered little once a burst of Necrotic Energy slammed into the robber, knocking them out with that dim, blue glow emanating from Azhar’s bracelet. "And now I have neither.., I hope you’re fucking happy."
© 2007-2017
BBCode Cheatsheet