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Don't Forget Again What I Want: All I Want is You
Reply to Scynneh or visit her websiteAdded to the Roswell Slash Archive February 16, 2001
Title: Don't Forget Again What I Want: All I Want is You
Disclaimer: If they were mine, I'd have more ideas than I'd know what to do with. Wait, I already have that problem. Oh, I wish that they were mine, Que sera, sera... Yet again, Darling Violetta provided me with a title, this is off 'the kill you' ep. It's terrific. And splendifantastically wondiferous too.
Dedication: Jess G, I couldn't get inside Rath's head because he was being pouty, and then your story made him... open to the idea...and other things. <EG>
Feedback: Give to the Muses and they shall be eternally thankful.
Spoilers: Again, who are these 'Dupes', and why am I asking this question?
I have been a solitary being. Not by nature, nor by choice, but by design. The plan of some unknown power that created me; wiring my mental pathways so that they would twist and turn in the patterns of a dead man. Only, when they made me, there were some things left unfinished, connections unmade. I was left flawed.
I managed to compensate for this shortcoming by learning the art of disguise. Few people shall ever come across another individual who is able to be so many things at once, and yet be nothing at all. I think that I would be the perfect court jester; only barely concealing the dagger in my belt, ready to strike down the king at the first sign of faltering. And I did, under the orders of my friggen' dominatrix of a partner. Yeah, she had a vision of what he denied us, but there were other factors that neither of us considered, namely the character of the other king. 'The one true king', as I called him. Never to his face, no that would let him know that I was capable of something he never conceived of: ironic humor. Yeah, so what if he and my double were close as could be for years, they didn't really know each other. My ruler and I followed the rules we made up; I protected his back, and he occasionally listened to the plots I schemed up. That was what she never understood; we didn't just screw our way around Central Park, we thought out routes too. Me, a strategist, who'da thought? But when I wasn't tasting the newest stock at some preppy white-collar school, I would try and find ways to get us home. Most of my ideas were stupid, even I could see that, yet the intelligence wasn't important, I was doing my part to get us off the planet that had sheltered us for all our lives.
And that wasn't what I wanted, I was more interested in being involved in stuff that would make 'Max's' hairs curl and his privates shrivel up. I wasn't able to avoid those kind of things. Lonnie and her brother always wanted to be entertained, the big light show got them their jollies, and most of the time I was able to deliver just what they were after, and get myself a little satisfaction in the bargain.
So, I liked sex. Still do, and nothing short of castration could hope to change that. It must be alien physiology, 'cause all of us were horny, nearly every minute, I was just ready to let go of some of the more inane restrictions that Zan put on us. 'Never a human in the law enforcement', 'don't touch the church,' and absolutely 'stay away from those Manhattan virgins'. I never understood his damn rules, we killed a cop or three, spat on religion, and he didn't respect girls in silk and wool any more than the ones wearing knock-off Nike and Gucci. I took his little restrictions, and gave him the finger. Then I had a nice little jaunt through the neighborhoods where a steak and seven courses for supper was considered 'plain fare'.
I've always craved lights and warm beds where there weren't rats and cockroaches fighting for the same food as we were. 'Royalty on one world, and useless street trash on another', that's what Lonnie used to say behind Zan's back, and it never failed to do its job, riling me up. That was the way she began to plant her 'seeds of dissent'; slowly and very softly, she whispered things in my ear that weren't like Zan, but wee, so that I was too angry to think about what made sense.
In the end, though, when he refused to let us go to that summit, all of Lonnie's planning came to nothing; I suggested that we knock the bastard's thick dome off in Time Square, just so that the point would be made. I was joking, but she threw out what would be the death of my king. I killed him, my brother, leader, lover, friend, whatever he was to me, I murdered that bond without guilt. He was a liability, one that would halt my ventures out of New York. Hey, if the order of a person's life is to leave their foster planet at the first available opportunity, then all of that world should be experienced, that's my way of thinking. I screwed anything worth the time and trouble it took to undo buttons and the like, cataloging and noting the variety of responses from people, and never once letting on that I was something other than a weak human.
Except for the ones that were just too moronic to be left alive. Those didn't get a hint, they got a non-refundable ticket to 'valley of death', and at the earliest I could arrange it. I was careful about getting rid of the bodies, but Lonnie eventually found out. She was never quite satisfied with my explanations, so one time I found her waiting up for me with my box of souvenirs. Each of my conquests lost something as a result of out encounter, be it their 'purity', or a necklace, I made sure that I came, and exited their lives somehow wealthier than I entered it. But when my lover found out about my hobby, she was furious. The performance I gave her was one of my best; complete with a scuffing of boots, downcast eyes, and mumbled promises. But I lied, and I did it again, and even up until our little trip to New Mexico. There I found something better, though, and my remarks about that Liz girl were for show rather than my libido. I had to maintain appearances, because I sensed another presence in that place that made my blood quicken as it did in Zan's company.
I saw him, my other half, the flat-haired, wounded boy with my face who played submissive bitch to the pseudo-Zan's Pekinese. That's what he looked like to me, this naïve leader, a mop of dark hair over big eyes, with dignity impossible to grasp in the face of such a hilarious getup. Anyone cursed with that face and not open to the possibility of experimentation was bound to end up hopelessly bound to an unreachable love, and he was no exception.
But as for me, or Michael, as he was called, there was territory rich with promise. Such rage at what he had suffered, base lust for that blond slip of a girl, and there, just beyond what some would call horror at my existence, was that twisting atomic flame of perversity. I saw what he could be; what we could be, and nearly took him with us to N.Y. It was good that I held back, because all of our plans turned to dust, and we had to run like beaten dogs, as far from everything familiar as we could. That didn't erase his face, and when Lonnie up and left after a few weeks of fights that left us both with broken bones and more holes in our clothes than ever before, I turned myself in the direction of that spark of darkness and began walking to seize my own destiny by the throat and with its last breathes, remake what would be.
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