Silver Stranded Stars

5. Third, fourth and twenty-something.

He stands before a mirror, a great round oval carved into the wall like a door itself. He has been brought before it, having only recently woken from one of the birthing pods to be fitted with some appropriate clothing.

The last thing he wants is to look in the mirror, since whatever it shows is a far cry from who he identifies with. Though, it is a fog still as to who he should be, or even what his name is. But he knows enough to be pissed, for he's having the unfortunate feel of déja-vu. The girl who'd brought him from the pod had looked at him with wet-forest eyes and walked a path of woven vines behind her. There had been pity enough in her young, narrow face for him to feel foreboding. Clearly whatever's to come is going to suck.

He can feel the memories there, fighting to emerge through the muck of his mind. Their coming isn't a comfort, more like a spoonful of terrible medicine that makes you want to gag. Or getting a needle. Ug. He remembers needles, the feel of their prick along his skin, the sting under his skin of metal. He remembers someone holding one to his stomach, while feathering his abdomen with contrary emotions. She has no idea what the fuck she's doing. He'd thought back then, the memory so thick, he nearly rises into it. But then it sloughs away, churns back into murky waters. ARG.

His body continues to revv the adrenaline, ready to fight, knowing he is angry, knowing he should be angry. Only why is he angry? They told me I'd been brought back from the dead. What should, in most lines of logic, be a good thing. Thought there is the question on how I died and...

Another sick churn of his stomach surfaces...regret.

Wallowing? I don't think so. This much of himself he knows. I'd rather stay pissed.

The girl in the pale-green wisp of a dress enters the room behind him. The chamber is a massive, high-arched dome carved of rock and marked by several murals depicting mighty warriors vanquishing many dark and tortured evil personas. Clothing is piled up on several chairs, and a machine sits in the corner nearby, a three-foot pear-shaped thing, resting on a tripod of wheels under its circular base. Its lights are off, and there is a dent diagonally bent into its metal front.

"You look less blighted this time, what do you remember?" She asks, lifting a shimmering pale-grey long-sleeved shirt from the pile. He sees a bandage wound about one her forearms, nearly hidden under the half-armed length of her sleeves.

His reflection frowns in the mirror and he is forced to acknowledge it. Long white-silver hair around a youthful face. The eyes and eyebrows are matching shades. Compared to the girl in green he is massive. His height is right but his muscles...

I look like I'm on steroids.

And I've had that thought before.

His mind stumbles. When? It fogs away the answer. Panic pounds. "What did you mean, this time?"

He peers at the green-eyes girl who hands him the shirt, she seems unbothered by his stark nakedness.

Her lips press together, "It's impressive really. You've only been here for thirteen hours and already you've been brought back, what was it...twenty-six times? You're lives are perennial. Zeus has bound Hades right outside your door to speed with soul retrieval. You cannot imagine the waste of bodies you have burned through."

He takes the shirt, slips it on. Reaches past her for some pants. Everything is tight in the wrong places. This is not my body. "Soul retrieval?"

She sighs, crossing her arms, looking to the great wooden door through which she'd entered. "You have it bad this time. Which might be good. Maybe if you forget yourself long enough, you might live to eat a meal. Sushi perhaps?"