General Appearance: He has her mother’s dark wavy hair and brown eyes, but other than that he is basically a younger version of Alex from facial expressions to how he carries himself and dresses.
Personality: Henry is very clever and could easily talk his way out of any problem. He doesn’t take things too seriously and at times is very cocky. He loves his parents and would do anything for them, even if it means breaking the rules, mirroring his mother’s beliefs.
Special Talents: Well, he’s a mutant just like his parents. His powers are similar like his mother, meaning it involves fire. He is able to produce fire and if he really makes the effort can at times controls the fire around him. Unfortunately, he didn’t inherit Clara’s ability to heal so when he is angered, he creates massive fires and burns himself accidentally.
Who they like better: Henry likes Alex more. It could be because Alex was in love with being a parent and would always play with him and take him out. Clara was there too, but she had a harder time being a mom, unlike Alex who naturally fell in the role. So, that could be why Henry prefers Alex most of the time.
Who they take after more: Despite being attached to the hip to his dad, Henry has many of his mom’s traits. He has her ambition, tendency to lie out of situations and has a very similar mutation like hers. But he does have his dad’s fierce loyalty and devotion to his family.
Personal Headcanon: So, for a while, Henry showed no signs of being a mutant. It worried him because, ironically, he felt like a freak for not being like his parents. But Clara assured him that if he had powers, they would show up one day and if he didn’t get them, that was alright, fewer problems for him. Thankfully, he was just a late bloomer and before they knew it, Henry had accidentally burned down the living room couch, much to his dad’s displeasure and mom’s amusement.
Henrys Patronus is the turtle. Henry uses his hard shell/ shield to protect himself from being hurt...again. He is sensitive and sealed and tries to avoid conflicts. In the beginning... and with strangers... he has problems to communicate and hides behind his mask. During the book he gains trust and inner harmony and is able to show his true self: A wise, loyal, calm young man with a strong heart. His process in his shell can be seen as cocoon that in the end reveals who he really is. He will find the ocean to swim in, that will gibe him a good environment.
One of his character traits is the ability of thinking about things, before doing them. This slows him down, but doesn't make him weak. Sometimes being slow and not running fast means reaching your goal.
As a part of his intense training ever since he had woken back up, Henry had relearned how to drive and had since then been generously gifted many things by the Organization. One such gift was a sleek, black Porsche which always sat in the garage below the Headquarters awaiting him. He would not use it today, however, today he needed to blend into the crowd instead of standing out.
So after gently passing his fingers over the hood of the vehicle, he slipped out of the parking garage and into the streets. The sun was already high in the sky and it was baking the earth and everything on it. Still, Henry kept with his dark clothing and skulking in shadows. At least to begin with, there was no point in raising alarm. Once his first job was done, everybody would be too distracted and panicked to notice him moving on to his second or third jobs.
Henry’s feet moved swiftly until he had reached his first target. It was the busy central shopping market for this side of the city and many people - women, children, several men, old and young - were moving from stall to stall and browsing the goods being offered while catching up with their neighbors.
The Organization Henry was a part of was concerned that people were resisting their hold on the area and they were convinced (and had convinced him) that should that happen, chaos would ensue. That, and this attack served as a good distraction from the real attack.
Henry moved to one of the stalls and pretended to be admiring the fruit. Meanwhile he let a tiny bomb slip from his shirtsleeve and settle into the pile of mangos. It was half the size of a grape and so the action went totally unnoticed. He turned away, picking up one of the mangos as he went and ate it while making his way out of the area.
The mango vendor noticed him steal the fruit and began to protest, but Henry only picked up his pace and kept going with his back to the old man who was now foolishly attempting to follow him. The idiot would not shut up and everyone was starting to notice so Henry turned quick as a blink, pulled out his Beretta and shot once. The vendor collapsed into the sun soaked soil and as he did, Henry turned again and ran until he was around the block and then he pressed his back against the brick wall of a building and heard the sickening boom and a cloud of smoke and flame rose from the market. Where there had been laughter and light chatter before, there were only cries of pain and screams of terror now.
He finished the mango and tossed its remains into the dirt. He was in broad daylight now. No more skulking in the shadows as nobody was paying attention to him. People were rushing to the scene of the attack as he was striding away from it. The first part of the plan had worked.
The next thing on the list were actually several things put together.
The rising rebellion had certain annoyances the people had started calling leaders. It had taken months to gather all of the names and now Henry was entrusted with executing all of them. One by one, he slipped through back doors and high windows into their homes. It never ceased to shock him just how easy it was to slit their throats, drop them to the floor and watch the life drain out of them in red as their wives screamed right before joining them.
By the end of the day, Mumbai was in panic and almost all of Henry’s jobs were finished. Almost. There was one more thing his boss’s needed and that was more of a personal, delicate desire.
There was no other place to go to satisfy that than the Women’s Shelter. The shelter was tucked away in a quiet part of the town although even from here one could hear the sirens blaring and now and then a cry of fear.
Shadows were stretching across the streets. The afternoon had passed quickly.
Henry moved into the courtyard of the shelter but everybody was inside either out of fear or out of the coming nighttime, he didn’t know nor did he care. After all, his entire person was still covered in the drying blood of the rebellion’s leaders for God’s sake. He did not care what some women and a few helpless girls were scared of or thought of him.
He pulled a dagger out of its hidden place within his coat and casually wiped the blade off against a handkerchief from his pocket. This was mostly for extra effect in case anybody happened to be watching.
He started moving toward the door but faltered. Out of the corner of his eye he saw her… the strange smudge of black hair… the puzzle woman from his deepest dreams.
I awaken to the same scene I’ve seen day after day. It’s normal for me now, maybe it always was... that is what they tell me anyway.
It’s a sterile setting, almost hospital like but with even less character if that is possible. The walls are pure white and the floors are a duller shade of the same white. There is a machine always right beside my bed though nobody has ever told me what it is for. Something about it seems familiar, though.
That’s how everything has been… vaguely familiar but nothing concrete.
I get out of the bed and stand, slipping on my shoes. In stark contrast to the room around me, my clothes are all black, from my socks to my shirt.
I move to the mirror, one of the few accessories the room sports, and I stare at myself. Foreign blue eyes gaze back at me. They’re mine, but I can’t help but wonder what secrets are hidden behind them. What have they seen that they aren’t telling me?
“Clarke?” A man is standing in the doorway looking expectantly at me as I turn around. His name is Johnson or at least that's what he has told me - apparently we have gone on several missions together. I feel like I remember them. I have had a hazy memory of killing a family to defend my friend while on a mission... that was as far as the memory went.
Also, I am called Clarke because that was one of the only things I could remember when I first woke up four months ago, and it is my last name they tell me. So I guess it's a good sign that I at least remember that. That and I remember a dark haired woman whose face is just a smudge in the corners of my mind. I can't place anything else together, it's all jumbled like a puzzle missing most of its pieces. It's frustrating to even try to figure it out.
“Yeah,” I give him a smile before moving toward the door and following him out into the hallway which is almost just as sterile as my room. The lights in front of us flicker and our heels click against the polished floors. There are many doors off of this hallway but I’ve never been into one of them. They’re all locked from the inside.
“Your training is almost done, Clarke. You’ve done exceptionally well…” The man trailed off. By the tone of his voice he wasn’t surprised by my accomplishments when it came to training with most of the weapons in their arsenal. “Do you think you’re feeling up to an actual mission?”
According to Johnson this was what I had done before my “accident”. I had always lived here so that’s probably why it made sense that I picked up on combat so quickly. My brain and body were used to it.
“Yes, sir,” I respond and he nods, the corners of his lips twitching upward slightly but he didn’t say anything. He hands over a manila envelope and looks me straight in the eye before nodding as if he had decided something internally.
“Your job is in here. Everything you need is down in the garage. Take what you like, Clarke.”
I nod and he pats me on the back but there is something in the stifling silence of this place that leaves me ill at ease. I hold the envelope under my arm and watch as Johnson disappears into one of the doors and it locks again behind him. I’m alone in the hallway except for the security cameras that are constantly scanning… for what, I don’t know.
I open the envelope and scan the papers inside of it. There are pictures of people clipped to a sheet listing information, dates, and times. Also, a fake passport and ID for myself fall out onto the floor. The sound of it hitting makes a deafening clatter. I squat down and pick them back up before tucking it all away again and I walk down toward the garage.
Henry’s eyes slowly fluttered into wakefulness and he stretched out across the bed. It had been years since had slept so completely and soundly. He felt extremely well-rested, so much so that it took a moment for his groggy mind to realize that he wasn’t in his own bed or even his own home. He pulled himself up to a seated position and the bed covers slid down his bare torso and crumpled around his waist. The room was a mess but somehow he had a feeling it wasn’t always like that. This destruction must have happened last night during the heat of their passion. He took it in while continuing to wake up and look for his things. There was a toppled over floor light and beside that his boxers. He moved toward them and slipped them on. It was only then that he realized that she was nowhere to be seen.
A gentle breeze fanned in and caressed the curtains covering the window but he didn’t think much of that. Perhaps she opened the window for fresh air? Maybe she was even out getting breakfast? Deep down, though, he knew that was just a fantasy. It was wishful thinking, on his half.
Henry snatched up his pants and slipped them on before padding with bare feet over the room to find his shirt.
After an unsuccessful hunt, he popped his head out of the door. The place was eerily quiet and his heart sank even further. He knew better. He /knew/. So why did he even expect otherwise of her? Why had he even gotten his hopes up? Why did he do this to himself? There was a bitter taste in his mouth which slowly settled in his guts. It never changed with her. She had left again. All she wanted was a night here and a night there with him. But nothing more no matter what she said… then again, had she ever said anything about wanting more? Maybe he had just misled himself there too.
Henry snatched his shoes and socks off the ground and threw them on before moving to her closet and opening it. He rummaged through her dark colored, leather and studded clothes before stopping when he saw several long sleeved button up shirts that were not made for a woman. He fingered over them while chewing on his bottom lip, his lips slowly setting into a thin line. There were other men. Of course there were. This was Aleks. But these men got closet space?
Things never changed.
Henry pulled out a forest green shirt and threw it on. It was a little small on him but better than nothing.
Without thinking twice and moving purely on resentment he made his way quickly toward the spare bedroom and made a B line to the antique bureau tucked away in one corner. He didn’t know all of Aleks’ secrets (not even God knew those) but some were just too predictable not to know.
Henry opened a frail-looking music box which was the only thing on top of the bureau. Instead of music coming out of it, though, a well sealed door opened in the wall revealing a tiny closet which housed several weapons – some of which Henry wasn’t even sure of the name. He pulled out a ballistic knife and a bowie knife before reaching for a Beretta and another tiny, easily concealable gun. After hiding these weapons on his person, he found a cap and slid it on his head. Henry pulled it down low enough to shade his eyes from view.
The bitterness built within him and spread through his entire being until he was shaking with frustration and anger. This one time, he had thought it would be different. He had woken up hopeful and expecting her to be there beside him. He would have leaned over and kissed her gently, he would have made breakfast for her. He would have felt normal for just a split second in their long lives, but no. Again she turned away from him and chose her job over him and over anything he might want. She satisfied herself and used him. Thoughts like these tripped over themselves so quickly he didn’t even have time to fully form them before it was on to the next enraged thought.
Moving to the kitchen he rummaged through the drawers, leaving them open and things laying on the floor in the wake of his own destructive search for matches and for any liquid that would take to fire.
Finally, he found some kerosene and a small matchbook.
His brows were furrowed darkly under the cap as he spread the clear liquid over the floors and down the hallway and he drenched the bed where just hours before they had made passionate love. He splashed the liquid against the leather in her closet and against those shirts meant for another man. He went into the spare room and drenched the secret room and all of the weapons left inside of it. The liquid trailed guilt behind him down the hallway and back to the living area and he poured the last of it onto the couch where his leather jacket still lay. After tossing aside the empty bottle, Henry picked his coat up and slipped it over his shoulders before taking one look over the apartment which was still disheveled from last night.
Henry swallowed, his throat was dry and scratchy, his heart was racing and his conscience was starting to poke through the disillusioned rage that had so completely overtaken him. He forced it back.
He pulled out the matchbook and struck one stick and held it for a moment. Then it dropped. Suspended in midair and he watched as time seemed to stand still before it landed on the sofa and the kerosene quickly caught fire and the orange flames spread rapidly over the furniture and down the hallway and into the secret room, her bedroom, the bed. Everything would burn.
Henry stood still and watched it before he turned his back on the scene and walked out, locking the door behind him and going slowly down the hallway and to the stairwell. He choked out his conscience. She deserved this retaliation. But what about the other people in the building, he thought to himself as his stomach twisted into a knot of shame. His passion for her had overcome him and his despair at her rejection had completely blinded him and overtaken his sensible nature.
He made it out onto the street. There were already flames licking out the widows of her apartment and devouring the drapery. People were stopping and pointing in the streets and several had their phones out and were dialing for help, no doubt. Henry hunched his shoulders over and pulled the brim of his hat down even further and made off into the shadows.
It had been ages since he had heard from her, ages of waiting and, finally, ages of resignation that he would never see her again, before one day a mysterious letter from her appeared on his porch.
