#... 𝙰 𝙲 𝙲 𝙴 𝚂 𝚂 𝙳 𝙴 𝙽 𝙸 𝙴 𝙳 ⁝ 𝐀𝐁𝐎𝐔𝐓 / KIT.

[autneca]

... 𝙰 𝙲 𝙲 𝙴 𝚂 𝚂 𝙸 𝙽 𝙶 𝙵 𝙸 𝙻 𝙴 : KITTIKHUN  'KIT' CHAICHANA ...

⊠    ɪᴅ  .  .  .  ʟᴏᴀᴅɪɴɢ    ››    [    apo nattawin wattanagitiphat   /      thirty1    /    demi male    /    he / them    ]   mercy  headquarters  is  pleased  to  officially  introduce  KITTIKHUN  ’KIT’ CHAICHANA.  they  have  been  apart  of  the  organization  for  twelve years,  serving  as  FIELD  agent  and  has  been  assigned  the  codename  AGENT  PHOENIX.  it's  worth  noting  that  their  file  indicates  they  have  undergone  the  solaris  treatment  and  host  FIRE MANUPILATION.  according  to  our  dossier,  the  agent  exhibits  a  combination  of  CHARMING  and  EVASIVE  traits,  fitting  for  someone  reminiscent  of  ash covered fingertips, a killer-smile on your face, ghosts of your past locked in your chest, you still crave to find the answers you seek. will they ever be enough or is the searching itself giving you purpose, a trail of smoke following your every step.  prior  to  embarking  on  any  mission,  the  find  solace  in  listening  to  the  song  “pompeii“  by  BASTILLE.

𝐂𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐅𝐈𝐄𝐃 : 𝙴 𝙽 𝚃 𝙴 𝚁 𝙱 𝙸 𝙾 𝙼 𝙴 𝚃 𝚁 𝙸 𝙲 𝚂 𝙲 𝙰 𝙽 𝚃 𝙾 𝙿 𝚁 𝙾 𝙲 𝙴 𝙴 𝙳 ...

BIOGRAPHY ( general tw/cw: death, fire, kidnapping, violence )

fire spreads through your veins.

vivid, yet fragmented memories of standing in front of a house in the dark. flashing lights, sirens all around you, falling on deaf ears.

you look up. the flames from the windows reflect against a tear-stricken face.

is this a real memory? or a nightmare?

you wake up.

—

kittakhun ( endearingly shortened to kit ) chaichana has been raised by his mother for as long as he can remember. it's natural for a single mother's love to stretch thin, especially one who has to juggle making a living for them, but kit doesn't have any complaints. he goes to school and comes back, helps whatever he can around the café that his mother owns.

the bell above the door rings often. it's a melody that the boy is used to. an elderly couple, another pair of regulars, enter inside. kit's sitting at one of the corner tables, hunched over his homework. wrinkly hands gently pat his hair and tell him to work hard before making it to their usual booth.

he runs between the cook's legs, stealing some candies from the counter. gentle, fond sighs fall from his mother's lips, and she tells him to be careful of the stove lest he gets burned.

it's a good childhood except for his father's absence. kit sometimes feels guilty about this line of thinking, that maybe it would have been better for him not to be in the picture at all. the man sometimes shows up for his birthdays, then disappears for a few years. other times, kit can see him smiling from afar at his violin recital, and then he disappears before he can even speak to him.

it troubles him in ways a young boy's mind cannot put into words. anger and frustration swim low in his belly. hands curled into fists at the lack of answers, lack of reasoning.

so, he tries to find answers in whichever way he can. asking his mother directly never works, so he tries other ways around it. asks his mother's friends, looks through old letters. takes his father's printed picture and asks the regulars of the café who give him weird looks.

until, one day —- he hears it. quiet on his feet, he reaches his mother's room, and from the gap in the door, he can see her. can hear the quiet, broken hitches of breath, the way she is curled into herself. shoulders trembling. a sort of helplessness in her countenance he will never forget.

after that, he stops. stops asking questions, stops trying to figure it out. he has his mother by his side, and that's enough- that's always been enough.

until, fate weaves his webs. twists and cuts the strings holding him up.

this memory's only in pieces: kit wakes up with a hand on his mouth. a sweet, revolting smell, emanating from a piece of white cloth. he can hear the muffled screams, feel how his scalp hurts from being pulled downstairs to the cafe. then there are chairs, they scrape against the ground, in a way his mother always hated. there's... someone on top of them, tied down, struggling. when his vision clears, recollection sets in. it is his parents with duct tape around their mouths. wrists and ankles tied down to the chair. tear marks on their cheeks, wrists rubbed raw from the rope.

this is the last time he sees them.

one day later, he wakes up. fluorescent lights hurt his eyes. there's an iv by his bedside. there are burns tracing up his arms. a few hours later, a police officer comes. she tells him his parents have died in a housefire. a freak accident. a gas leak. ( 'be careful with the stove, kit!' ). they tell him that he is the only survivor. and it's gone- all of it's gone. the café, their house, kit's violin, the pictures his mother has hung up on the wall, some of them hers, some of them his. it's all gone.

and no one believes him. no one believes in the boogeyman who murdered his parents. they chalk it up to the colorful imagination of an eleven-year-old. a trauma response. how he doesn't recollect every single detail, how his mind fills the gaps to make memories more palatable.

he's put into the foster system after that. too old, too headstrong to be one of the favorites, he ends up back in the orphanage after a few weeks at a time.

there's a fire inside of him, one that never goes out — lit up by the sheer belief he has in his own truth. in himself. that he knows he wasn't lying. he knows what happened. and he will be the one to uncover it one day.

this does not mean the trips to the counselor's office, or every return from a foster family stings any less. but the shell around him hardens how lava turns into molten black stone.

when he turns eighteen, he leaves that place. learns how to survive on his own feet. takes a couple of odd jobs here and there, waiting tables, bartending, and cooking at restaurants where he has to look the other way.

it's a while after that mercy finds him. orphans always make the best recruits, after all. and the way the tactical agent looks at him sparks something in his chest that this might be the way to the answers he has been looking for all these years. that maybe, just maybe, he will be uncovering his own truth sooner than later.

after his training, it doesn't take him too long to sign up for the solaris drug. sees the potential in it, and a part of him looks for that thrill, the idea of mutations, of powers, knowing how useful it will be in this line of work. then —- he gets what he asked for. his own powers.

another cruel web of fate. as if someone is laughing down at him.

pyrokinesis. fire manipulation. as the result of the drug, he can manifest sparks at the end of his fingertips. burn a house with the snap of his fingers. make their enemies scream in agony and wish for a better end.

his life has been defined by fire, and it never lets go of him.

eventually, this too, is taken in stride. phoenix is what they call him. an apt name for a boy who knows nothing but to survive. to reinvent himself so that he can burn brighter, fight harder.

he learns how to live with his mutation, how to make it his own. how to use it to do what he does best. having been part of mercy for almost a decade now, he thrives in the field. embraces the fact that by definition, he is disposable, and this makes it all worth so much more. enjoys having fun, a charming grin on his lips, hands always warm when they wrap around someone's waist. and then- knows when to jump back into that state of mission.

agent phoenix knows he has only so many shots at making a difference, and he is going to use it well.