merrymelody (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
merrymelody) wrote2018-01-11 07:50 pm
merrymelody) wrote2018-01-11 07:50 pm
geostorms/inhumans fic
put your ray gun to my head (press your space face close to mine, love)
If you've sat through Inhumans and Geostorm, here's your reward. Or punishment.
(I had to google every character name multiple times, which was probably more work than the creators of either production put in, tbh.)
Attilan’s new era is progressing with less rapidity than Maximus had initially hoped, as the Genetic Council continued to drag their collective feet.
While this could initially be dismissed as the expected clinging to of scraps of power and archaic traditions so beloved by vainglorious, wilfully blind men; Maximus was beginning to fear that he’d underestimated the foolishness of old acquaintances. Kittan’s demise was regretful, but forcing the new King’s hand into action against the entire council would be even more so.
Tibor seems blissfully unaware of the precariousness of his own position, instead choosing to spend their meetings needling Maximus, as if he hadn’t spent a lifetime enduring similarly ignorant jibes. Bronaja’s entrance was a welcome relief, as Maximus felt his patience being tested.
‘Sire, apologies for the interruptions, but the boy had a vision, and…’ a guard offered, bowing.
‘No apologies are necessary, my good man.’ Maximus made an effort to smile genuinely, patting the guard on the arm. ‘Thank you for your service. This boy’s power aids Attilan in protecting our walls, and you yourself do likewise in heeding my words so thoughtfully.’
The guard leaves, revealing Bronaja, head bent. ‘My King.’
‘Bronaja. How fare you?’ Maximus offers. A vision, even one of dim impart or dire consequence, is of high importance; but in every situation, it is important to remember the grace of simple courtesies; a lesson that Blackbolt never fully understood.
‘Well, sire. You bade me alert you to any thing Seen.’
‘Quite. What images have formed?’ He smiles gently. ‘News from Earth? I hope that my brother will soon relent in his devotion to tyranny, and return home to us. Did you see Blackbolt?’
‘No, my King. I saw a human, one flung from the station they’ve established.’
‘A human?’ Tibor interjects. ‘Surely this is not worth troubling our royal highness over. The race cannot survive alone without their machinations, one left behind will surely perish without need of our intervention.’
‘Tibor’, Maximus sighs.
‘You yourself warned us of the risks they bring with them, their war-like natures,’ Tibor reminds him.
‘I advised preparation, striking first, claiming Earth, our rightful home, bringing this hiding like rats to an end. If anyone paid attention when I spoke up, my family would not be absent now. I do not plan to begin keeping pet humans, however, Declan should be an excellent lesson to you as to the benefits of peace accords, however temporary.’ Maximus places a hand on Tibor’s elbow, to quell his questions, but Tibor remains stubborn.
‘Perhaps Declan has provoked your sympathies, sire? I do not mean to question, only express my concern that your Majesty’s admirable empathy may leave you vulnerable to manipulations from less genuine causes.’
Maximus tires of these political games, well aware of Tibor’s real concerns.
‘Declan has expertise on humans undergoing Terrigenesis. This makes him important to me. Which should make him important to you.’ Maximus pauses. ‘I realise tactical thinking was never your speciality, Tibor, but Bronaja has foreseen a human’s arrival, at a time in which my family are on earth and in which our reports witnessed unexplained weather patterns and manifestations of powers. This alone makes preserving its life until its arrival at Attilan a worthy mission.’
He turns to the boy. ‘Was there anything in your vision that suggested I be concerned of the human’s motivations, Bronaja?’
‘No, my King, no blades were visible, and he seemed helpless.’
‘Very well, then. Guard, alert your battalion leader. I’ll need a squadron sent immediately. I’m given to understand that human genes do not promote optimal survival chances.’ Maximus’ mouth twists a little. ‘Wouldn’t you agree, Tibor?’
*
The human is cold, despite the efforts made by the squadron to ensure it’s safety; and appears ill-tempered, especially in comparison to Declan’s obsequiousness. It sniffs a little, poking at the meal offered to it, but gladly wolfs the food down after the cursory examination.
‘Tastes like porridge.’ It mumbles through mouthfuls, chewing loudly.
‘My guest informs me you eat as we do, for the most part. Attilan’s crop schedule may differ somewhat, we lack the variations of weather found on Earth; but we have plentiful grains and wheats.’
‘I’ve been on a satellite for two years, mate. If it’s not dry powder in a Ziploc, I’m ecstatic.’ The human finishes the bowl. ‘This is your castle? Not quite Buckingham Palace, is it?’
Maximus doesn’t understand the references the human has made, and doesn’t particularly care to try; he’s experienced enough of Karnak and Gorgon’s jabs to recognise the teasing sentiment, if not the statement itself, but having spent his life being disrespected by the highest of Attilan royalty, his own family; the dismissive attitude of the human amuses rather than enrages him.
Blackbolt himself, the most powerful Inhuman, cowers on Earth, deposed and alone, while the masses unite behind King Maximus; while Declan toils to create the DNA capable of granting unimaginable gifts, a life larger than ever imagined or hoped for. In his victory, he can extend compassion to a lesser lifeform, perhaps even recognise in it’s taunts a little of the fear motivating them.
‘Do you have a name?’ he asks, kindly.
Declan has two, and the title of ‘Doctor’ besides, and the human’s placement on a satellite would suggest some kind of elevated position, considering the meagre amounts of them discovered by Attilan’s astronomers; but it’s relative youth and unshaven, casual appearance would beg to differ. Perhaps names are not given but earned in Earth culture.
The human nods. ‘Duncan Taylor. Formerly of the British Isles. Not sure how they’re faring at the moment, though, there’s been a lot of extreme weather recently.’
He smiles a little at this, oddly, but Maximus doesn’t care much about a human’s concept of geography or their feelings about it.
Perhaps humans too can grow to nurture a numbness to pride, to monarchies and structures and even homes; can instead realise the folly of placing hope and trust into these crumbling edifices, to these arbitrarily defined tribes. Perhaps not.
The roaring fire appears to have warmed the man ‘Duncan’, and he gracelessly drops the blankets pressed upon him by the guards, to reveal an overall style uniform, and that he’s clutching a black, long shape. Maximus only recognises it’s purpose when Duncan puts it down carefully and slowly, making eye contact all the while, as if demonstrating he’s not a threat.
‘A gun.’ Maximus says as a statement. It’s a guess, familiarity with Earth words gained from Declan, but it wouldn’t do to let the human know that. ‘For killing other humans.’
Duncan shrugs. ‘For protecting yourself from being killed. A space-station can be a dangerous place, particularly for an ambitious man like myself.’
‘It seems unwise to keep such a weapon in an impermeable environment.’
‘Certainly was. But I’ve always been more of a lover than a fighter. I’m sure you can understand.’ Duncan offers, straightening his spine to look down at Maximus’ unimpressive stature from at least a head’s length difference in height.
Maximus’ hands flex momentarily, as he resists the urge to fantasise briefly about punishing this impudent human, snapping his neck like firewood.
(that’s enough embarrassment for today)
His brow twists, mockingly, instead. ‘And what of your loyalty, to King and country?’
‘My loyalty’s to who’s paying me, mate.’ Duncan shrugs. ‘Software engineering pays shit.’
‘If you hope to make your fortune, I should warn you Attilan’s economy has long been dependent on the labour of those such as yourself, working in the mines.’
‘People? Here?’ Duncan looks nervous now, and Maximus is amused.
‘Those without powers. Born on Attilan, but whose genetic code revealed only Earth ancestry, with none of our abilities. Of course, as King, I work tirelessly to reform such a system, but the barbarous conditions will take generations to fully resolve.’ Maximus shrugs infinitesimally. ‘In the meantime, at least such unfortunates are provided with a home.’
‘Have you been to Earth?’ Duncan asks quickly. ‘There’s loads more people, just America’d fill the M- Attilan. With that many miners and the technology there, you could be more than a King. You could be a god.’
Maximus smiles a little. ‘And I suppose you have irreplaceable talents that could aid me in this quest? The ear of those on earth? The expertise only you can offer?’
Duncan shrugs, grins a little in acknowledgement of the obvious ploy. ‘I can play nice.’
‘Your fellow humans could no doubt attest to your fealty. How much did you receive to betray your own royalty, your whole race?’
Duncan’s head darts up.
‘You think you’re the first human on Attilan? That because we are unseen by mortals, we do not observe them? My aide has visions of what will pass. He saw your…exit, the destruction of your station. The attempted execution of a traitor.’
‘Me?’ Duncan spits. ‘You betrayed your own brother! I heard them, on the ship that brought me in. Said you sent him to Earth to die.’
‘Earth has glory surpassing many planets. My brother Blackbolt would thank me for my generosity if he wasn’t so…uncommunicative.’
Duncan raises his hands as if to peace make, appeal for calm; a gesture Maximus long recalls practising, greeted only with dismissal, as instead his family chose to worship the culture of brute strength, of crude weaponry.
‘It’s none of my business, mate. I haven’t got family myself, what do I know? Sounds like the prick had it coming. No one back home treated me like I was worth anything, I just thought if I had a place of my own, some cash; I’d have…a little power. I’d be someone. Guess a King couldn’t understand that.’
He’s a passable manipulator, but not a great one. He’d fool Blackbolt, Crystal, may have fooled the humans on his satellite, but Medusa wouldn’t be taken in for a second; and Maximus sees the sneaky look out of the corner of Duncan’s eyes, the licked lips and blinks through the hair in his eyes, unsubtle attempts, as if they’re telegraphed. It’s almost endearing, and he allows the man to stay his hand, to ply his pitch, if only for a little longer.
*
Maximus has never fucked a human before. He’d consider the idea…well, not incest, considering the lineage of Attilan royalty, but something closer to beastiality. Worse. It would be more socially acceptable to fuck Gorgon, hooves and all, or Iridia.
But Duncan is pretty. A soft beauty, more like Crystal than Blackbolt or even Medusa, their own allure enveloped in their strength, their limitless power.
‘You fuck? Like we do?’ he asks, overalls removed, as he unlaces his boots, gaze taking in the palace bedroom, the four poster bed and thick canopies. ‘You don’t have moon goddesses with…I dunno, three tits and four cunts?’
Maximus shrugs. ‘We have two genders. Beyond that, our biology is limitless.’ Most of Attilan resemble humans at least superficially. It’s been suggested by the Genetic Council that this developed as an evolutionary method to disguise and protect Inhumans from discovery, from the humans who outnumber them. But the suggestion of the unknown keeps the man in check, off-balance.
‘You look normal enough. One cock, one arsehole, yeah? What do you think about, when you wank?’ he asks, lying back on the bed and touching himself lazily.
‘Tread carefully. The last man who underestimated me was my brother.’ Maximus says in a low voice, leaning in to trace his tongue up the other man’s neck.
‘C’mon. Tell me what you think about.’
He finds himself confessing. Perhaps it’s the presence of someone at a remove from the court politics, blissfully ignorant of his own precarious position. Perhaps it’s an ear, if not friendly, then at least that of a common, something he hasn’t felt since playing with Medusa as a child, another good liar.
Another traitor.
Another filthy, unworthy human.
‘My sister.’ Maximus murmurs.
Medusa, tying him down with her hair.
Fucking that stuck-up little Crystal in the royal bedrooms, over the corpse of her slathering mutt, as she weeps, begs for her life.
Gorgon on his knees, an excellent student, worshipping his rightful king.
Karnak, infernal mouth sealed over his cock, but for the brief intercessions when Maximus takes him from behind; as he advises Attilan’s ruler, on the flaws in Blackbolt’s leadership, in the foolhardy shortsightedness of the Genetic Council, on the doomed coupling of his brother and best friend.
The sweet boy, Bronaja, frightened but worshipful, eager to learn from his elder and better, being shown from the inside the intricacies of the court, of proving your devotion to your king.
Even the human, Declan, fucking him, penetrating his walls, filling him with the DNA he needs, the raw surging power.
*
Afterwards, the human laughs, softly.
‘I always wanted to fuck on the moon. Closest I got was the hangar while we were working on the Dutch-boy. Used to get Dussette to screw me with the gun against my head. Got boring otherwise, nothing to do but game and code.'
‘Dutch-boy?’ Maximus asks. He knows 'gun' and 'hangar', and 'games' such as chess, and the grammar of human sentence's seems to follow similar rules with regards to nouns, but he's clearly not mastered the language's intricacies. Perhaps a human as translator may be of enduring value, after all.
‘The space station network. Dussette was a French lad, actually. I say lad, he was probably working on equations while I was still in nappies, but you know. Any port and all that.'
Maximus does know. 'I sleep with Medusa's sister. When she'll have me. She's very proud, although I suspect she may have become humbled since.'
Duncan looks no more concerned by the danger implicit in Maximus' words than he does at the prospects for those left on Earth after his sabotage. A disregard for bodily welfare, both his own and others, recalls Auran, her powers of regeneration, and he wonders for a second about the tales of human manifesting powers on earth, before dismissing it.
'What's her power?' Duncan asks, idly.
'She controls the weather', Maximus answers. 'Ironic, no?'
‘Coulda saved me a shitload of trouble’, Duncan murmurs. ‘You don’t need a power, though. A little coding virus, and the whole planet’s toast, you can watch it burn.’
Maximus doesn’t know what coding is, but he understands, nonetheless. ‘A sneak attack.’
'You can save the best bits, beaches and...trees, and shit. There's too many people already, really. Take...', Duncan stretches, yawns a little. 'Pride of ownership. Just an option.'
'And who owns you, Duncan Taylor?' asks Maximus, slyly.
'Long live the King', the man murmurs, and kneeling, begins to praise once more.
If you've sat through Inhumans and Geostorm, here's your reward. Or punishment.
(I had to google every character name multiple times, which was probably more work than the creators of either production put in, tbh.)
Attilan’s new era is progressing with less rapidity than Maximus had initially hoped, as the Genetic Council continued to drag their collective feet.
While this could initially be dismissed as the expected clinging to of scraps of power and archaic traditions so beloved by vainglorious, wilfully blind men; Maximus was beginning to fear that he’d underestimated the foolishness of old acquaintances. Kittan’s demise was regretful, but forcing the new King’s hand into action against the entire council would be even more so.
Tibor seems blissfully unaware of the precariousness of his own position, instead choosing to spend their meetings needling Maximus, as if he hadn’t spent a lifetime enduring similarly ignorant jibes. Bronaja’s entrance was a welcome relief, as Maximus felt his patience being tested.
‘Sire, apologies for the interruptions, but the boy had a vision, and…’ a guard offered, bowing.
‘No apologies are necessary, my good man.’ Maximus made an effort to smile genuinely, patting the guard on the arm. ‘Thank you for your service. This boy’s power aids Attilan in protecting our walls, and you yourself do likewise in heeding my words so thoughtfully.’
The guard leaves, revealing Bronaja, head bent. ‘My King.’
‘Bronaja. How fare you?’ Maximus offers. A vision, even one of dim impart or dire consequence, is of high importance; but in every situation, it is important to remember the grace of simple courtesies; a lesson that Blackbolt never fully understood.
‘Well, sire. You bade me alert you to any thing Seen.’
‘Quite. What images have formed?’ He smiles gently. ‘News from Earth? I hope that my brother will soon relent in his devotion to tyranny, and return home to us. Did you see Blackbolt?’
‘No, my King. I saw a human, one flung from the station they’ve established.’
‘A human?’ Tibor interjects. ‘Surely this is not worth troubling our royal highness over. The race cannot survive alone without their machinations, one left behind will surely perish without need of our intervention.’
‘Tibor’, Maximus sighs.
‘You yourself warned us of the risks they bring with them, their war-like natures,’ Tibor reminds him.
‘I advised preparation, striking first, claiming Earth, our rightful home, bringing this hiding like rats to an end. If anyone paid attention when I spoke up, my family would not be absent now. I do not plan to begin keeping pet humans, however, Declan should be an excellent lesson to you as to the benefits of peace accords, however temporary.’ Maximus places a hand on Tibor’s elbow, to quell his questions, but Tibor remains stubborn.
‘Perhaps Declan has provoked your sympathies, sire? I do not mean to question, only express my concern that your Majesty’s admirable empathy may leave you vulnerable to manipulations from less genuine causes.’
Maximus tires of these political games, well aware of Tibor’s real concerns.
‘Declan has expertise on humans undergoing Terrigenesis. This makes him important to me. Which should make him important to you.’ Maximus pauses. ‘I realise tactical thinking was never your speciality, Tibor, but Bronaja has foreseen a human’s arrival, at a time in which my family are on earth and in which our reports witnessed unexplained weather patterns and manifestations of powers. This alone makes preserving its life until its arrival at Attilan a worthy mission.’
He turns to the boy. ‘Was there anything in your vision that suggested I be concerned of the human’s motivations, Bronaja?’
‘No, my King, no blades were visible, and he seemed helpless.’
‘Very well, then. Guard, alert your battalion leader. I’ll need a squadron sent immediately. I’m given to understand that human genes do not promote optimal survival chances.’ Maximus’ mouth twists a little. ‘Wouldn’t you agree, Tibor?’
*
The human is cold, despite the efforts made by the squadron to ensure it’s safety; and appears ill-tempered, especially in comparison to Declan’s obsequiousness. It sniffs a little, poking at the meal offered to it, but gladly wolfs the food down after the cursory examination.
‘Tastes like porridge.’ It mumbles through mouthfuls, chewing loudly.
‘My guest informs me you eat as we do, for the most part. Attilan’s crop schedule may differ somewhat, we lack the variations of weather found on Earth; but we have plentiful grains and wheats.’
‘I’ve been on a satellite for two years, mate. If it’s not dry powder in a Ziploc, I’m ecstatic.’ The human finishes the bowl. ‘This is your castle? Not quite Buckingham Palace, is it?’
Maximus doesn’t understand the references the human has made, and doesn’t particularly care to try; he’s experienced enough of Karnak and Gorgon’s jabs to recognise the teasing sentiment, if not the statement itself, but having spent his life being disrespected by the highest of Attilan royalty, his own family; the dismissive attitude of the human amuses rather than enrages him.
Blackbolt himself, the most powerful Inhuman, cowers on Earth, deposed and alone, while the masses unite behind King Maximus; while Declan toils to create the DNA capable of granting unimaginable gifts, a life larger than ever imagined or hoped for. In his victory, he can extend compassion to a lesser lifeform, perhaps even recognise in it’s taunts a little of the fear motivating them.
‘Do you have a name?’ he asks, kindly.
Declan has two, and the title of ‘Doctor’ besides, and the human’s placement on a satellite would suggest some kind of elevated position, considering the meagre amounts of them discovered by Attilan’s astronomers; but it’s relative youth and unshaven, casual appearance would beg to differ. Perhaps names are not given but earned in Earth culture.
The human nods. ‘Duncan Taylor. Formerly of the British Isles. Not sure how they’re faring at the moment, though, there’s been a lot of extreme weather recently.’
He smiles a little at this, oddly, but Maximus doesn’t care much about a human’s concept of geography or their feelings about it.
Perhaps humans too can grow to nurture a numbness to pride, to monarchies and structures and even homes; can instead realise the folly of placing hope and trust into these crumbling edifices, to these arbitrarily defined tribes. Perhaps not.
The roaring fire appears to have warmed the man ‘Duncan’, and he gracelessly drops the blankets pressed upon him by the guards, to reveal an overall style uniform, and that he’s clutching a black, long shape. Maximus only recognises it’s purpose when Duncan puts it down carefully and slowly, making eye contact all the while, as if demonstrating he’s not a threat.
‘A gun.’ Maximus says as a statement. It’s a guess, familiarity with Earth words gained from Declan, but it wouldn’t do to let the human know that. ‘For killing other humans.’
Duncan shrugs. ‘For protecting yourself from being killed. A space-station can be a dangerous place, particularly for an ambitious man like myself.’
‘It seems unwise to keep such a weapon in an impermeable environment.’
‘Certainly was. But I’ve always been more of a lover than a fighter. I’m sure you can understand.’ Duncan offers, straightening his spine to look down at Maximus’ unimpressive stature from at least a head’s length difference in height.
Maximus’ hands flex momentarily, as he resists the urge to fantasise briefly about punishing this impudent human, snapping his neck like firewood.
(that’s enough embarrassment for today)
His brow twists, mockingly, instead. ‘And what of your loyalty, to King and country?’
‘My loyalty’s to who’s paying me, mate.’ Duncan shrugs. ‘Software engineering pays shit.’
‘If you hope to make your fortune, I should warn you Attilan’s economy has long been dependent on the labour of those such as yourself, working in the mines.’
‘People? Here?’ Duncan looks nervous now, and Maximus is amused.
‘Those without powers. Born on Attilan, but whose genetic code revealed only Earth ancestry, with none of our abilities. Of course, as King, I work tirelessly to reform such a system, but the barbarous conditions will take generations to fully resolve.’ Maximus shrugs infinitesimally. ‘In the meantime, at least such unfortunates are provided with a home.’
‘Have you been to Earth?’ Duncan asks quickly. ‘There’s loads more people, just America’d fill the M- Attilan. With that many miners and the technology there, you could be more than a King. You could be a god.’
Maximus smiles a little. ‘And I suppose you have irreplaceable talents that could aid me in this quest? The ear of those on earth? The expertise only you can offer?’
Duncan shrugs, grins a little in acknowledgement of the obvious ploy. ‘I can play nice.’
‘Your fellow humans could no doubt attest to your fealty. How much did you receive to betray your own royalty, your whole race?’
Duncan’s head darts up.
‘You think you’re the first human on Attilan? That because we are unseen by mortals, we do not observe them? My aide has visions of what will pass. He saw your…exit, the destruction of your station. The attempted execution of a traitor.’
‘Me?’ Duncan spits. ‘You betrayed your own brother! I heard them, on the ship that brought me in. Said you sent him to Earth to die.’
‘Earth has glory surpassing many planets. My brother Blackbolt would thank me for my generosity if he wasn’t so…uncommunicative.’
Duncan raises his hands as if to peace make, appeal for calm; a gesture Maximus long recalls practising, greeted only with dismissal, as instead his family chose to worship the culture of brute strength, of crude weaponry.
‘It’s none of my business, mate. I haven’t got family myself, what do I know? Sounds like the prick had it coming. No one back home treated me like I was worth anything, I just thought if I had a place of my own, some cash; I’d have…a little power. I’d be someone. Guess a King couldn’t understand that.’
He’s a passable manipulator, but not a great one. He’d fool Blackbolt, Crystal, may have fooled the humans on his satellite, but Medusa wouldn’t be taken in for a second; and Maximus sees the sneaky look out of the corner of Duncan’s eyes, the licked lips and blinks through the hair in his eyes, unsubtle attempts, as if they’re telegraphed. It’s almost endearing, and he allows the man to stay his hand, to ply his pitch, if only for a little longer.
*
Maximus has never fucked a human before. He’d consider the idea…well, not incest, considering the lineage of Attilan royalty, but something closer to beastiality. Worse. It would be more socially acceptable to fuck Gorgon, hooves and all, or Iridia.
But Duncan is pretty. A soft beauty, more like Crystal than Blackbolt or even Medusa, their own allure enveloped in their strength, their limitless power.
‘You fuck? Like we do?’ he asks, overalls removed, as he unlaces his boots, gaze taking in the palace bedroom, the four poster bed and thick canopies. ‘You don’t have moon goddesses with…I dunno, three tits and four cunts?’
Maximus shrugs. ‘We have two genders. Beyond that, our biology is limitless.’ Most of Attilan resemble humans at least superficially. It’s been suggested by the Genetic Council that this developed as an evolutionary method to disguise and protect Inhumans from discovery, from the humans who outnumber them. But the suggestion of the unknown keeps the man in check, off-balance.
‘You look normal enough. One cock, one arsehole, yeah? What do you think about, when you wank?’ he asks, lying back on the bed and touching himself lazily.
‘Tread carefully. The last man who underestimated me was my brother.’ Maximus says in a low voice, leaning in to trace his tongue up the other man’s neck.
‘C’mon. Tell me what you think about.’
He finds himself confessing. Perhaps it’s the presence of someone at a remove from the court politics, blissfully ignorant of his own precarious position. Perhaps it’s an ear, if not friendly, then at least that of a common, something he hasn’t felt since playing with Medusa as a child, another good liar.
Another traitor.
Another filthy, unworthy human.
‘My sister.’ Maximus murmurs.
Medusa, tying him down with her hair.
Fucking that stuck-up little Crystal in the royal bedrooms, over the corpse of her slathering mutt, as she weeps, begs for her life.
Gorgon on his knees, an excellent student, worshipping his rightful king.
Karnak, infernal mouth sealed over his cock, but for the brief intercessions when Maximus takes him from behind; as he advises Attilan’s ruler, on the flaws in Blackbolt’s leadership, in the foolhardy shortsightedness of the Genetic Council, on the doomed coupling of his brother and best friend.
The sweet boy, Bronaja, frightened but worshipful, eager to learn from his elder and better, being shown from the inside the intricacies of the court, of proving your devotion to your king.
Even the human, Declan, fucking him, penetrating his walls, filling him with the DNA he needs, the raw surging power.
*
Afterwards, the human laughs, softly.
‘I always wanted to fuck on the moon. Closest I got was the hangar while we were working on the Dutch-boy. Used to get Dussette to screw me with the gun against my head. Got boring otherwise, nothing to do but game and code.'
‘Dutch-boy?’ Maximus asks. He knows 'gun' and 'hangar', and 'games' such as chess, and the grammar of human sentence's seems to follow similar rules with regards to nouns, but he's clearly not mastered the language's intricacies. Perhaps a human as translator may be of enduring value, after all.
‘The space station network. Dussette was a French lad, actually. I say lad, he was probably working on equations while I was still in nappies, but you know. Any port and all that.'
Maximus does know. 'I sleep with Medusa's sister. When she'll have me. She's very proud, although I suspect she may have become humbled since.'
Duncan looks no more concerned by the danger implicit in Maximus' words than he does at the prospects for those left on Earth after his sabotage. A disregard for bodily welfare, both his own and others, recalls Auran, her powers of regeneration, and he wonders for a second about the tales of human manifesting powers on earth, before dismissing it.
'What's her power?' Duncan asks, idly.
'She controls the weather', Maximus answers. 'Ironic, no?'
‘Coulda saved me a shitload of trouble’, Duncan murmurs. ‘You don’t need a power, though. A little coding virus, and the whole planet’s toast, you can watch it burn.’
Maximus doesn’t know what coding is, but he understands, nonetheless. ‘A sneak attack.’
'You can save the best bits, beaches and...trees, and shit. There's too many people already, really. Take...', Duncan stretches, yawns a little. 'Pride of ownership. Just an option.'
'And who owns you, Duncan Taylor?' asks Maximus, slyly.
'Long live the King', the man murmurs, and kneeling, begins to praise once more.