Classroom X

day minus five twenty five: longing

Angel of Death.

He had gotten used to the name. He even liked it, in spite of the fact that it was his enemies who bestowed the title on him. He liked the name because he was finally free. Not caged underground like a lab rat anymore, no longer answerable to anyone. And the best part of it all was that he had won his freedom himself. He had found his own way out, walking on a bloody path he created himself. They had been ever so careful; they had taken so many precautions, countermeasures, suppression methods, but he got the better of them anyway. He would have laughed if he hadn't just woken up.

Angel of Death. He thought it was a lovely name. It suited him. It made him feel powerful, like a ticking bomb. He was something to be feared and revered.

The floor was cold when he stepped off his bed. Well, technically it wasn't his bed. He had snuck into someone else's apartment after he found out that the real owners were going to spend all night outside. Hunting for a sleeping place for the night was a harrowing task. He had just gotten lucky that day, stumbling on some useful information accidently.

Usually, he'd be spending nights in empty, unrented apartments, because the chance of someone finding him there was almost null. But empty apartments had no furniture, or food, or temperature control systems. He preferred sleeping on beds and having hot showers, things he could only find somewhere that was already occupied. He could also watch TV, and rummage in the refrigerator if he felt hungry, although he usually only ate the food he stole straight from the stores.

He could stay in a motel; he knew it was an option. But that would just make it easier for the soldiers to trace him. Stealing to live was his best choice. It left no money trail, and it didn't give people enough time to remember his face.

His face. He stumbled towards the large mirror affixed to the front of a closet. His straight blonde strands were now a nest atop his head, unruly and lacking uniformity. He'd tried clipping it a few days ago, maneuvering a pair of blunt scissors. Now he couldn't wait for his hair to grow back out so he could give himself a proper haircut. His blue eyes were were clear and teeming with energy, ready to face the day, alert even though he had just woken up. His stolen, bedraggled shirt hugged his thin body warmly.

Then the face in the mirror changed. Suddenly, the person looking out at him through the mirror wasn't himself, but the first Doctor he had killed, piercing him with cold, frightening eyes.

He rocked back in shock, tripping on himself and toppling over. His heart began beating wildly in his chest, his breath coming out in rapid succession. He looked into the mirror again, his hands in fists, and it was only his own stiff face watching him.

The pounding in his chest receded as sense returned to him. The Doctor wasn't really there, he had killed him a long time ago. He wasn't going to be tortured, or experimented on. However, he knew what he saw wasn't a product of his stressful imagination. The face he had seen in the mirror hadn't been an illusion. It was a real face—his face. It was just an accidental manifestation of his mimicry. He knew it, yet he was worried about it. Lack of control of his powers was going to get him into trouble sooner or later.

Gingerly, he climbed back onto his feet. He thought it wouldn't be such a bad idea: he should stop trying to steal food and clothes and places to sleep in. He should instead steal a face.

Morning sunlight hit his face. In the mirror, the glow turned his hair into a soft halo.

He turned back to the bed he had slept on and began fixing it compulsively, smoothening the wrinkles on the covers and tucking its edges beneath the bed. When the real owners returned, they shouldn't find anything amiss. But there wasn't much to do anyway. The room was kind of empty, so were the closet and the drawers of the wooden desk pushed beneath a window. The top of the desk was empty too, save for a desk lamp and a few charcoal pencils. Two large bags stood against the closet, one black, the other beige. It looked like the owner of the room had been packing up to leave. The only decoration in the room was the painting hung above the window, showing a weeping girl sitting on top of a belfry, a swarm of bats circling her head in the stormy sky above.