Eve
by Diamonde
DISCLAIMER: The universe, organizations and characters mentioned here don't belong to me, except for some of the Canaanite bit players and I don't really want those. The atrocious plotline of Stryfe and Aliya that brought this story on is also the property of Marvel Comics, although if I was them I certainly wouldn't admit responsibility. (Not because I don't think Stryfe is capable of such a thing, of course he is. It was just strange, stupid, out of character and whatever he was trying to accomplish he did a completely half-assed job. I can think of much better ways to go about it, and I'm not the psychopathic control freak in this relationship.)
My part? The story itself, obviously. I didn't want to write it, I don't like it (therefore don't expect you to either), and I hate the whole idea... this you may have noticed. I blame Sparks completely.
"There was never an angry man that thought
his anger unjust."
(Saint Francis de Sales)
*******************************
PROLOGUE
Stryfe clenched his fists, but said nothing. Shouted the vilest insults he could think of inside his head, but said nothing. The time for talking would come later... and he would not be yelling like a child. That would only leave him open for more patronizing dismissal.
What did his age matter? Or his aristocratic habits, which still stuck after all those uncivilized years? He'd been a prince! From his earliest years he'd received an unequaled education... and as a telepath, there were few things he couldn't learn easily, quickly. He KNEW he was one of the best generals they'd ever see.
But although a talented upstart, he was an upstart none the less. Neither his superiors nor the soldiers under his control respected him. Those he could punish feared him, but somehow managed to consider him a child anyway. A child stuck in the past with a tendency to throw dangerously violent tantrums.
Sanctity, Haight, all of them... they'd learn. Stryfe sat quietly. He'd show them all just how ruthlessly adult he could be. In time, they'd all learn to fear him...
*********************
"Gotta hand it to him, he's not a bad commander." The young Canaanite propped himself up idly, wondering how he was going to stay awake though another five hours of sentry duty.
His partner snorted, maybe still bitter about the flesh wound he'd received the day before. "The little chaos bringer? Feh. Sure he can manage when he's got the advantage, but what about when his back's to the wall? Uppity alphas only cover their own backsides, you know that. Stryfe's just a kid anyway. Wonder who he had to screw to get that high."
"Haight?"
"Maybe. Best thing Apocalypse boy's got going for him aside from the 'heir' story is that he looks pretty in that armour." He frowned thoughtfully. "Then again, being an alpha-level telepath would be useful. Could keep an eye on things really easily..."
"Yeah." There was an uncomfortable silence as they both considered the very small distance between Stryfe and their unprotected brains. "So... how's the arm?"
Stryfe's fist hit the wall, the impact cushioned with his telekinesis just in
time to avoid shattering any bones. He'd been eavesdropping on his soldiers for
three hours, and was in an almost homicidal rage. I WON! What more do they
want from me?!
The insidious little voice that lurked in the back of his head provided a ready answer. They don't think you're a real fighter. Just a rich brat using dead daddy's weight to push your way into a position you didn't earn. Act like a soldier, Stryfe. And be the most brutal, vindictive soldier they've ever seen, make them more afraid of you than the Clan Chosen. You've got more power than anyone else on this cursed earth, why shouldn't you start throwing it around?
He'd have them killed. But not like this, he wouldn't let them see that their sneers and insinuations had disturbed him. There was a far easier target... and one whose pain would hurt the Askani'son as well. His cursed clone, the one who was responsible for his loss of position in the first place.
Not quite sure what he was going to do but quite certain that it was going to be painful, Stryfe stalked to where he'd had his prize prisoner confined. The guard at the door saluted slowly. "Uh, sir, I thought..."
Stryfe stared frostily at him for a moment, then spoke softly. "If you were thinking that this is my prisoner and I'll do whatever I like to her, you were quite right. If you weren't, I would hope that you would have remembered the rank system and imagined your own execution for insubordination as well."
There was a very short pause then the sentry smiled pleasantly. "Would you like me to get the door for you, sir?"
Stryfe nodded calmly, still struggling against the urge to turn the little worm into a smoking handful of ash. This one had learned, unlocking the door and stepping aside to let him in with fitting subservience. Another look and the door closed behind him without any further protests.
Jenskot deliberately didn't stand up when he entered, but she didn't cower. She simply gave him an impatient, disgusted look. This was very nearly the worst thing she could have done, the defensive superiority further inflaming a temper long since lost.
Jerking her to her feet Stryfe hit her hard across the face, making her gasp with pain. It made him feel a little better, but she was hardly cowed. Still mentally sneering, although she wasn't foolish enough to do it verbally. That didn't matter, he could still hear her thoughts and see her face raised in defiance despite the tears of pain that glittered unshed.
She was really very pretty that way... showing a strength he hadn't encountered before. Not in a woman, anyway. It was rather fascinating... he wanted to break it. Rip the Askani bitch's composure to shreds, make her feel just some of the pain her dead sisters and idiot lover had caused him.
Stryfe jerked Aliya towards him and kissed her hard, anger and lust and insecurity and pain tangling together to form one all-encompassing need.
The sentry on the door sighed as shouted threats became whimpered curses that finally faded into silence. Didn't think Stryfe had it in him. Maybe we just never managed to catch something that tickled his aristocratic tastes before, she's nearly as uppity as he is.
The door opened of its own accord, but Stryfe left it up to him close. He didn't complain. The lofty, distasteful look was back on his commander's face. Didn't seem to loosen him up much. What a waste.
"Nobody but me touches her, understand?"
"Yes sir." He watched Stryfe walk away without another word, then indulged his curiosity and peeked into the cell. What IS she crying about? By the look of it lord high-and-mighty hardly even hurt her. Clan Chosen women might be good fighters but they certainly aren't up to much else.
Stryfe walked casually back to his quarters, made sure he was alone and vomited for three minutes straight, retching violently. After his stomach was finally empty and the heaves had stopped, he lay back on the cool floor and tried to collect his scattered thoughts. Why had he just lost a perfectly good lunch? Well, he knew the answer to that... Jenskot's powers might be inhibited but a telepath always thinks loudly, especially when distressed. He had more trouble blocking people's feelings out than hearing them anyway. Her hate and revulsion was still echoing in his brain.
Angry at himself for his lack of control, Stryfe washed his pale face and rinsed the taste out of his mouth. Angrier at her, though... because he didn't understand. Why had she reacted so violently? Prisoners, slaves, peasants... they got forced all the time. Even if he'd never been tempted himself before, it was something Stryfe accepted. He hadn't really paid much attention since he was five or six, why did she care so much?
He could have simply beaten her, that would have caused much more lasting damage. He had intended to do that anyway, but vomiting in front of the sentry would have made him a laughing stock, his image would never have recovered.
Confusion nagged and he went back outside, searching quickly for one of the ever-present women that were apparently necessary in a military camp of that size. Normally he didn't even notice them, but once he looked he found one easily. Small, blonde, close to his own age. Eighteen at most, probably less.
Grabbing her wrist he pulled her around to face him, ignored the yelp of surprise and forced her head up so he could look into her eyes. She didn't struggle, waiting patiently for whatever order he might give.
He didn't give any. Instead he delved into her mind, really looking for the first time in his life. He never paid any attention to her kind except when he was feeling particularly restless, usually preferring cleaner and more interesting partners. Perhaps if he had he had realised earlier...
Pushing the girl away Stryfe turned back, musing on the discovery. What had been a bright fire in Aliya's mind was a dull glow in the other's, mostly dead instead of loudly alive. One a dangerous unknown, something outside his experience. The other quiet, docile and completely lacking in personality or interest. She had no hopes, no dreams, no fantasies. All she cared about was survival, it was her religion.
In Aliya was far more like Stryfe himself, although he was on a quest for power and she was... she wanted something else, something he didn't have words for. And she would die for it. Why? What was the point of changing anything if you were dead? But it did mean he'd never break her with the fear of death and pain, even though she was afraid of it. That was... unusual. Puzzling.
Stryfe stopped musing and silently resolved to keep his sexual adventures confined to the few women in the Canaanite ranks or the more interesting civilians in future. For them power was enough and matters were simple. Prisoners were too confusingly complicated and using camp followers now seemed disturbingly akin to necrophilia.
But he had learned another small lesson, and one he intended to use. He was tired of being angry, it made him do things he hadn't thought through or didn't completely understand. If he was going to successfully acquire more power, surprises should be kept to a minimum. They were too dangerous, he disliked being unsettled.
When he returned, he'd tell Haight that he wanted to command the entire Canaanite force. Assisted of course, but outranking all others. And if Haight refused, he'd... well, he'd simply make sure that the man didn't refuse. He would no longer rely on telekinesis for sheer force, using telepathy as an offensive weapon against his superiors would be much more satisfying than simply using it as surveillance and protection. Which reminded him, he had executions to arrange...
Stryfe glanced at the setting sun and decided to follow it up the next morning. Despite the clinging feelings of degradation which he still didn't entirely understand, it had been a very productive day. And if he felt that bad, surely Dayspring would feel worse.
The thought wasn't as pleasant as it should have been.
fin