Undying Hate
Apr. 1st, 2021 07:33 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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spiderparlourDead. No. It was impossible. Marcus couldn't be dead. This had happened before. The nuclear incident in the Soviet Union. The Rikti War. His own plans had seemed to manage it, only for Statesman to rise again.
But they had confirmation of a body. And the method used--he'd considered something similar before. It could have worked. It had worked. And before those useless failures of the Freedom Phalanx could retrieve Marcus, the body was gone.
The Circle. They'd stolen him. Those thieving old wizards were going to use Marcus' body for one of their rituals, and his idiot allies were too distracted saving civilians to notice or care.
But he could not be bound like them. He knew what they were doing, and he knew where. The technique they'd employed left a distinctive signature, one the Mystics could track. No matter where it led, he would follow. And then he would shatter the heart of Oranbega and let the stinking heap of Paragon collapse into its ruins.
A conference of Magi tracked the killers--
--they tracked the killers to a buried Oranbegan outpost, snaking along a ley line from their city. No time to waste. The strike force was already assembled and in motion before he even received the coordinates. Hand-picked months ago for another operation, for a plan that didn't matter anymore.
And they would perform their roles to perfection. If they did not, he would know. And they would die to redeem themselves, or they would live to wish they had been so lucky.
But as soon as they were close enough to strike, his rage could not be contained any longer. He tore into the mages and their demonic allies, the sting of their spells and spectral claws barely felt, their flesh barely felt as he cut them down. They were flimsy, weak things, how dare they, how dare they do this.
He descended through their outpost, his operatives following in his wake, their numbers slowly dwindling. He'd planned for that. When their arch-demon master tried to end him as they'd done to Marcus, he'd planned for that too. He always planned, grown stronger, changed the world to better suit him, and yet it had not been enough.
And this would not be enough to calm him, how could it? He wasn't finished, no matter how much his wounds were slowing him now. He survived the demonic assault, his countermeasures only partly effective. It felt like glass had been ground into his bones. But he could not be stopped.
He tore the demon's burning heart from its chest, and limped on. The ritual chamber was next, the mages trapped in their incantations over Marcus' body. With their ceaseless chanting pinning them in place, all they could do was watch him advance and kill.
And when at last he stood beside the ritual altar, he finally saw.
Marcus was still breathing.
But they had confirmation of a body. And the method used--he'd considered something similar before. It could have worked. It had worked. And before those useless failures of the Freedom Phalanx could retrieve Marcus, the body was gone.
The Circle. They'd stolen him. Those thieving old wizards were going to use Marcus' body for one of their rituals, and his idiot allies were too distracted saving civilians to notice or care.
But he could not be bound like them. He knew what they were doing, and he knew where. The technique they'd employed left a distinctive signature, one the Mystics could track. No matter where it led, he would follow. And then he would shatter the heart of Oranbega and let the stinking heap of Paragon collapse into its ruins.
A conference of Magi tracked the killers--
--they tracked the killers to a buried Oranbegan outpost, snaking along a ley line from their city. No time to waste. The strike force was already assembled and in motion before he even received the coordinates. Hand-picked months ago for another operation, for a plan that didn't matter anymore.
And they would perform their roles to perfection. If they did not, he would know. And they would die to redeem themselves, or they would live to wish they had been so lucky.
But as soon as they were close enough to strike, his rage could not be contained any longer. He tore into the mages and their demonic allies, the sting of their spells and spectral claws barely felt, their flesh barely felt as he cut them down. They were flimsy, weak things, how dare they, how dare they do this.
He descended through their outpost, his operatives following in his wake, their numbers slowly dwindling. He'd planned for that. When their arch-demon master tried to end him as they'd done to Marcus, he'd planned for that too. He always planned, grown stronger, changed the world to better suit him, and yet it had not been enough.
And this would not be enough to calm him, how could it? He wasn't finished, no matter how much his wounds were slowing him now. He survived the demonic assault, his countermeasures only partly effective. It felt like glass had been ground into his bones. But he could not be stopped.
He tore the demon's burning heart from its chest, and limped on. The ritual chamber was next, the mages trapped in their incantations over Marcus' body. With their ceaseless chanting pinning them in place, all they could do was watch him advance and kill.
And when at last he stood beside the ritual altar, he finally saw.
Marcus was still breathing.
no subject
Date: 2021-04-25 09:25 pm (UTC)The space between his limbs was still armored, but there was little to be done about his back around it without affecting his movement. His armor was already fitted as close to the limbs as he could afford.
He had to splay some of his limbs apart to expose the burns beneath them, left by mages and demons he'd made the tactical decision to ignore as he pushed ahead through the caves.
And while he sat there, letting his hated enemy bandage vulnerable wounds, he tried to think. To plan. To work a way around whatever this infuriating compulsion was to keep Marcus alive.
no subject
Date: 2021-04-25 11:38 pm (UTC)Watching the muscles around the spider limbs where they attached to the back was interesting, but Marcus didn't let himself be distracted. For a moment he wondered what they felt like and looked like without the armor, but it was a passing thought quickly banished from his tired mind.
no subject
Date: 2022-01-12 07:59 pm (UTC)Theoretically, one could create a pocket dimension that lacked the Box's power. Inside, one could theoretically operate without its influence. A perfect place to trap Marcus, and to perform experiments. Perhaps even a means to permanently sever the connection to the Box.
But it would mean giving up all power in exchange for freedom. While he continued to fund dimensional research, he manipulated their focus away from the idea. He wanted Marcus dead. He wanted to be free. But would he give up the rest of what he'd become? Of course not.
In the meantime, he could at least keep Marcus injured. But inevitably it would fail. The Circle's ritual would wear off. Someone would find them and rescue the hero. Or one of his own followers would undermine him. That was how it always went. Every single time, it failed.
Sometimes it felt like if he could have just a few moments peace to stop thinking about Marcus, he could bend the universe to his whims. He wasted so much energy on the man.
And he was truly impossible to ignore now. There were places between his spider limbs that were always sensitive. Vulnerable. The injuries there ached and spat fire--some of them literally, the Circle's magical flames flared angrily as the wounds were treated.
But most keenly, he felt skin against his. He hadn't allowed anyone to touch there in years.