Gabir could feel his brother following him. He had not ever met another like himself. In fact, he wasn’t aware any others existed. Yet, here was the strange westerner in his midst. Gabir remembered his name, but preferred his new form- a shape he referred to as his morphus. His skin was gray, and stitched together- composed from the bodies of several bodies- a macabre creation out of the American movies. His arm, from the elbow to where his hand should be, was replaced by a rusty scimitar. At night, he roamed the streets with an insatiable hunger. The dead, or the weak, were his prey. His Becoming was less than a year before, but he had reveled in his powers. Since that time he ravaged Baghdad, growing in power, and feeding. The evil that surrounded him was intoxicating. Why had he not felt it before? It was like too much wine- drinking it would likely lead to future regret, but now he could think of nothing else. That is, until three days ago.
He noticed the American in the Baghdad markets. Iraqi people loved Americans, and he was safe despite the dangerous neighborhood. It didn’t take him long to realize that the American was looking directly at him however. The dance had continued for days, each fascinated with the other. Each night, they came closer to the conflict that felt inevitable. Tonight, Gabir believed would be that night. Until he was called.
Hundreds of miles to the west, an explosion of immense power called to him. He had never left Baghdad- either before or since the Becoming. Now, though, he left as quickly as he could. He comforted himself that there would be another time to ‘meet’ his new brother.