When Tyro entered the mists he had no idea what to expect. As the terrigen mist filled the chamber he clenched, wished, hoped, prayed, begged for something that would please help his family. Something that would give him<i>power</i>. Something to make them once again relevant, respected, feared, loved, trusted.<br/><br/>What he absolutely did not expect was a vision.<br/><br/>As the green mist curled over his feet he felt a tingling, a crawling, a strange pain crowded along his jaw. He closed his eyes and retreated into his mind.<br/><br/>He was standing on an Attilan cliff. It was red as though it had been painted with ochre and iron ore. Below him was a fisherman, hunched over, in churning water. A storm was coming. Sharks were circling around his little rowboat.<br/><br/>Before he knew it Tyro had begun climbing down the near sheer surface of the cliff. His fingers scrabbled across the rocky face, clutched, tears streamed from his eyes as his vision changed. The rain beat against him, loosening his grasp, dragging him down towards the rocks.<br/><br/>As he slid down his skin changed. His face slammed against the cliff face, his fingernails tore off, his skin abraded and bled as he tumbled down the side of the cliffs towards the rocks. In a last, desperate attempt to avoid dying on the rocks he flailed, kicking and pushing until he slammed one leg into the rock face.<br/><br/>Tyro’s body went spiraling out towards the fisherman in the rowboat. He arched his back, brought his hands forward and breached the water into—<br/>His eyes snapped open. He was in the tank.<br/><br/>The twenty three year old pounded his changed fists against the glass until it popped open, leaving him stumbling forward and then falling onto his hands and knees. He spasmed as he coughed up a spray of blood and porcelain shards—no, not shards, not porcelain but bone:<i>teeth</i>. His crimson stained teeth were sprayed across the floor in front of him.<br/><br/>An increasing sense of disquiet crept along his mind as he stood with a surprising fluidity, a grace that he lacked before. He turned, ignoring the rest of the Inhumans, and gazed at his reflection in the glass of the pod he had just been released from. Night-black eyes, light gray skin and vicious, carnivorous serrated blade teeth covered in his own blood. His thick hair was still present, his lips still thick though now alabaster, his fingernails were missing and he bet the same was true for his toenails, both now replaced with that light grey flesh.<br/><br/>“Fuck,” he muttered as he felt his body, entranced with the changes. His muscles were thicker now, giving him a more cut experience, while simultaneously being hard like carved wood. It occurred to him what he looked like now: a shark. A predator.<br/><br/>A ruthless killer.<br/><br/>Tyro turned to the assembled Inhumans, breathing a sigh of relief to see that someone else had been as drastically—more, even—changed than he had been. That was something. As he looked at Dragul he sniffed, cocked his head to the side. “Huh…” That was strange. Scent was new. He could tell volumes about someone based off of their smell, like the fact that the dragon-man would be able to collect knowledge imprinted in material through touch alone.<br/><br/>That the silver skinned one could manipulate people’s pleasure, that he was inherently likeable. His blood chilled when he saw the shadow woman and knew, in a heartbeat, that she could murder with a touch if she so wished. That she could live eternally through that murder.<br/><br/>Tyro regained control, blinked, rubbed his face, did his best to wipe the blood off of his chin, mouth, cheeks. “Hey, guys…” He turned his head to look at them. “I’m Tyro.” Only Apelarious looked familiar: he had seen the other man around construction sites and vaguely knew his name, but no more than that.<br/><br/>“So nobody’s here yet? How long have you all been waiting for?”