Desire, absence of desire—is it the greatest treasure in the universe to have all you desire?
Strange thoughts filtered through the mind of the man who sat at the heart of an empire. All around him the cacophonous noises of alarms and radio transmissions combined into a steady roar, harsh and unrelenting. The center of the sprawling military complex was lit by incandescent lights that gave the room a dark red glow which reflected the mood of the man in control of it all. He was a man lost in his own discontent.
Or should I rid myself of desire?!
If I could stop wanting…
Would that grant me some happiness? And if so—then what? How then would I live? What would I do with my days?
Is there a peace that would satisfy me, and could I forget what I want?
Would I really be happy to kill all my desires? Or is this unending discontent to be my private doom?
Without my desires, I fear I would not know myself. I would not enjoy peace. I must need!
And so it seems that discontent is a pestilence, the lonely disease of the thinking man. Perhaps I cherish an affliction that sets me above other men. Perhaps I cannot ever be happy. Or at least be satisfied with a simple state of happiness.
Would that be such a loss, not to find some artificial state of mindless happiness? I can will any change within my own mind, and within the minds of all around me.
I have absolute power. I can create my own happiness. I can create my own world. I can create my own mood, and glut myself with any sensation the human race has ever known, with sensations no human has ever known, but one—
Alessia.
I could choose to forget her, to be content with my absolute dominion over my world. If I desired to do so. I could choose to kill my desires… I could make myself any man I want to be. Brave, kind, good—but I cannot choose for long. There is no comfort in it for me!
I know what it is that I have lost, what it is that I need. And mindless happiness can never satiate real desire.
The gift she gave me—was it a gift or a curse?
For all that I could choose to be, I have less permanent control over my own mind and power than I did when I was no one. Just a scientist, a man bound by human frailty to a limited power over his own destiny.
I think I was happy, back then. It was so long ago.
That man was someone else. I never knew myself fully back then.
Discontent—passion—misery—betrayal—fear—they wake the human soul.
These things force us to know the full range of capacities within ourselves. They force us to know what it is that we are, what it is that we relish.
I have absolute power, and control over my own thoughts. But I cannot destroy those that existed at the very moment of my metamorphosis. When I see her, I remember him. The very best parts of him I cannot have back entirely, a recollection that brings joy and pain—and desire. Since that time, there have been other alien thoughts, other alien moods I have known, that I would not wish to abandon. They have imbedded into my soul. I have lived so many lives in a short span—through the raping power of my mind, through telepathy. That is how I became a stranger to my original self. That is how I can choose to be a different man every day. I can choose what I want to be, but inevitably I tempt myself to change.
Was there ever a time when my love was greater than my hate? Even after the moment that changed my life…
So many emotions, and lack of emotions. There is infinite possibility, and no one on this world to share this understanding with me—I am alone in my power. Alone. And there is no one here to bring me back from oblivion—it has happened once. I have had to fight the invading power of memory from a strong mind not my own. Had oblivion claimed me—the thought that I was another man and not myself—there would have been no one here with the power to reclaim my mind as it was. My resurrection, my future, my hope—all rest within her.
She was the last immortal. We alone can save each other from fighting our powers alone.
Alessia, I cannot stop wanting. I cannot stop. I cannot go back.
The devils of power within me will not rest so easily. They are eternally hungry—for human pain.
As the minutes slowly passed, he remained seated in his command chair. Then without warning, an ominous rumble sounded from beneath the Center and shook the building, and he was jolted to the floor.
Immediately, several of his officers hurried over to aid him to his feet, older duty officers and gangly youths fresh out of training. Pushing them away, he leaped up and resettled himself on the chair, brushing his uniform. His gaze was feral, but not angry. His movements, slow, like a predator, but with a mesmerizing agility and masculine grace.
The officers stared at him, partly out of fear—it was the only time they felt fear—and partly out of an eternal awe. At times, they could not bear to look away from him. At other times, they were afraid to look at him too long. He could be cruel on a whim, and yet they were willing to bear whatever fate he decided for them. His power—power of body, of soul, of mind—radiated unmistakably. Even had they not known who he was, they could feel it surrounding him.
His word was law—life and death. His power was absolute. They did not feel safe around him. But they adored him. While distracted, he had been known to hurt innocent bystanders. And yet no one in that room would have given up the opportunity to be near him, if they could. For in his presence, their bodies were imbued with some of his raw power. Their minds, their bodies, were suffused with an unnatural power. They felt fear only briefly, fear of him. But no pain, no remorse, no lack of self-composure, no lack of pleasure.
His presence was pure energy, elation, glory.
Near him, they could function long hours, with pleasure, with confidence, with power, just basking in his power. They were beautiful, they were brave. They felt such pleasure, just to serve him. Away from his presence, they were mortal. They were weak, afraid, unhappy, discontented, ordinary. There was nothing—and they were nothing—
Without their Great Leader.
How ironic it was that he could give them what he could never give himself. Contentment.
“Great Leader,” an officer called loudly over the tumult from across the room, “our ships continue to search the area.”
The man in the chair nodded, and once again the room was as before. They could watch long hours, contented, never bored, even by the endless watching he required of them. They had no pressing urgency to attack. Their leader enjoyed the long hunt.
Then there were long times when he could not endure—they did not know what it was that gave him such distraction, for in his company, they felt none.
Only a few times had he ever given any of them a taste of his urgency, of his suffering—that was long ago. None had survived the outpouring of his grief. Their minds could not take the strain.
The officers present had seen him strong for several years. They had not known the long absences of years past—when he fought… something he could not explain. He no longer invaded their minds, if he could stop himself. He had no further desire to dally in the petty curiosities of mundane life. He used their minds only when need arose and never descended to the depths of their reality.
He did not choose to speak. Already they knew what he expected of them. They were searching for the key to his salvation. But he was patient. They did not believe he was afraid. He had waited more than a hundred years—and some of those years he had been dormant. But in the last few years, his mind had grown active once more. And he was no longer content with the waiting.
By all appearances, he was a man of twenty-seven years. He had a body like a beautiful statue—he was lean and well-muscled. He was handsome—with an almost angelic masculine face. His clear blue eyes were brilliant. In them the light of raw power and obsession burned. Rage and a secret anguish.
Without warning, he laughed. In time, he stopped, because he disliked the sound. He disliked his existence, when he began to dislike himself.
“Alessia think
s she can deny me?” he asked quietly. The attempt was futile, his tone of voice warned. It also held a tone of outrage. And, if anyone present were not engulfed in the mindless euphoria he gave them, they could have detected one last note of human pain.
The need in him.
It was also anticipation. And an evil need for retribution.
She is not beyond facing the consequences of her actions. There is no escaping me, and there will never be, as surely as she made me what I am.
“I will hunt you down.” He said, in a quiet, ice-edged voice. “You will pay for your crime. I will make you pay for it.”
And I will take what should rightfully be mine.