Netahiln and Habithi's Story: Ambition

Habithi glared at the ruins of yet another of his creations. Its throat had been torn out, its limbs ripped from its body, and the glass that had been covering its otherwise exposed brain broken and scattered over the floor. Habithi had actually stepped on a piece (and hissed a few curses while he forced it out of his paw) when seeking out what had happened to his newest psionic guardian. That brain had been scattered all over the floor, too. There was blood everywhere; it was a miracle no one else had found it yet-- but then, no one else probably knew it existed.

Except whoever had destroyed it.

It didn't take too great a leap of logic to realize who had done it, however. This was the third of his warped monsters destroyed in the same manner, and each time previously he'd caught a whiff of her, or found a hair or two. And each time previously he'd caught her looking at him when she thought he wasn't looking-- shrewdly, smugly, seeking a reaction for something she ought not have known about unless she was somehow involved. And who else would have the knowledge, the motivation, the hatred necessary? No one else.

Netahiln was, somehow, finding his protective creations and systematically-- and thoroughly-- destroying them.

How was she doing it? How? They barely spoke, he and Netahiln-- they barely looked at each other-- and he thought those creations were protecting his mind from her. Was he wrong-- were they not effective against his estranged bond? Was she somehow getting through the psionic protection, or slipping around it because of that link between them? Or was she merely noting that she couldn't read him, and seeking out the source of the blockage?

Or was she finding them some other way? She had been fairly well-known-- notorious, even, in a base and passing sort of fashion, to a few small groups in the underground-- before he'd chosen her to bond. Perhaps she'd played on that, made a few connections, done a few favors, earned herself the loyalty of a few spies. People disappearing could be learned about without much difficulty, though sifting through various disappearances in search of the one that he had caused could take some time.... Apparently, though, she had the patience for it when he'd expected her not to.

Ever since Habithi had realized, to his private dismay, that Nethiln was a much better psionic than he could hope to be, demigod or not-- she had subtlety, which he knew she had but never used, and more skill than he'd thought she could learn-- he'd tried to find ways to protect himself from her prying. Most of them, so far, had been in the form of either physical absence or "recruited" protectors. The former seemed to do little good, and the latter always ended up dead. He could almost admire her for mustering the determination and discipline to learn and practice for as long as it had to have taken, and to track down what he was thinking and doing without his noticing, but at the same time he was annoyed, because she seemed to be using her skill to thwart him every time she could. The potential he'd sensed in her, that just needed discipline and instruction to blossom, had blossomed without him, and against him.

Perhaps, in his first hours, he had made a mistake by alienating her-- he wasn't stupid enough to not realize when he'd erred, though he would never admit it to anyone but himself. He'd underestimated her, underestimated her attachment to that disgusting little girl, underestimated how much she could hate him, she who had agreed to bond in the hopes of doing just what he'd done....

He knew that he'd made a mistake in altering that disgusting little girl. Being so humiliatingly ordered-- no, be honest, being mentally forced-- out of the apartment had been painful, for his poor head as well as his bruised ego. He hadn't really meant to corrupt her body quite so much, but he had been barely out of the shell: the power had surged a bit, and he'd had to do something with it.

He was much better at it, now, of course, even three months out of the shell-- he should have waited. Should have practiced a bit, first. But he'd been determined to prove to Netahiln that he could do what needed doing-- determined to forcefully sever that useless attachment she had-- that he'd been impatient. It was a lack of discipline on his part, he knew that now. It would never happen again, and that it had happened at all was an embarrassment, but it was too late, now.

Habithi left the ruined body where Netahiln had left it-- let the authorities, or scavengers, or anyone else deal with it; it was useless now, that was all he cared about-- retreating to his personal lair. He still lived with his bond, of course, but he was only there to sleep and for the occasional meal, so she didn't get too suspicious and start seeking him out. But he needed his privacy, needed a place that was entirely his, especially once he learned just how determined she was to get in his way at every turn. So he'd found, first, a few someones willing to ally with him-- or, more accurately, be loyal if stupid minions for him-- and then used those connections to let him use someplace private and personal. Netahiln didn't know about it. Yet, anyway. He thought.

::Good morning, boss!::

Of course, some of those stupid minions came with baggage.

"Hello, Petunia."

::I hope your search went well!::

As if that wasn't dreadfully obvious, since he had returned alone. "Does it look like my search went well?" he asked girly little dragon, waving his short, bladed tail at the empty air behind him. That it doubled as a threatening gesture seemed to go over Petunia's head entirely.

::Well, better luck next time?:: he chirped, undaunted.

Habithi had no idea why he didn't scare the creature stupid, with his unattractive appearance, dangerous powers, and irritable disposition. And yet Petunia was cheerful and friendly to a fault, blithely ignoring threats, insults, and probable danger. Perhaps after being bonded to a violent psychotic, someone sane, no matter how dangerous, was a bit of a relief. Perhaps Petunia was as psychotic as his bond, delusional about the danger he toyed with every day. He certainly treated Illiot the same way, despite Illiot's unpredictable nature, fiery temper, and difficulty dealing with reality.

::Master!::

Ah, that was better. A little. Illiot himself scuttled into he front room and bowed low, respectfully. Insane and imbecilic he might be, but it took very little to gain Illiot's loyalty and, thus, the use of his spacious and comfortable home. A few tricks, a very minor corruption, and the promise of retribution for whatever wrong the dragon fancied at the time, and Illiot was his. It was too bad that he was utterly useless for anything except being servile, protective, and generous with his apartment.

"Hello, Illiot." Because it kept him happy to be touched by his deity now and again-- he saw it as being showed favor, or some rot like that-- Habithi brushed the dragon's scaly head with a foreclaw. Illiot positively wriggled. Disgusting. But good for the ego, nevertheless.

::Did you find what you were looking for?::

"After a fashion." Not like either of them actually knew what, exactly, he'd been out looking for.

::Need me to rip anyone's throat out?::

"Not today." Though he wished he could send the idiot off after Netahiln, that would probably lose him his minion. Even if Illiot somehow succeeded in offing her, Habithi was still bound to the brat, and he didn't relish the thought of feeling her die.

Looking disappointed, Illiot backed off.

The fourth (and fifth?) housemate-- and, really, the most useful despite their divided nature, though that wasn't saying much-- was out. Being useful. Jantan'Betina-- or Jantan and Betina, more appropriately-- were out learning things. Both of them had good connections and charisma, though in very different fashions, and they were both more intelligent than Petunia and Illiot-- though that wasn't saying much, either. Better, Jantan had interests that Habithi himself lacked that he could share with others, and Betina got along well with the significant others of the people in power. Especially if they were female, even more especially when they were trophy mates.

It was truly unfortunate that they were to tied together, quite literally at the hip-- and the side, and the shoulder, being that they were conjoined twins-- and so unable to make the most of their connections. Habithi had been sorely tempted to separate them with his own ability to warp matter, but he couldn't think of a way to do it that wouldn't make them hideous and, thus, ruin their charismatic appeal-- the power was corruption not correction, after all.

But with the siblings' current absence, and with Petunia and Illiot dealt with for the moment, Habithi was free to retreat to the room that was his alone and think. Something had to be done, first, about Netahiln, or at least something had to be done to put her off the trail for a while so he could find a way to protect himself. Then something had to be done about the terrible lack of progress he'd been making with anything of import. He had a few servants, yes, and Netahiln seemed to be leaving them alone, but none of them had the intelligence, cunning, and complex mind needed for politics. And politics was the only way he could really gain power on Star City, he wasn't stupid enough to have missed that. The underground was closed to him, and only able to advance one so much, and a military take-over simply wasn't feasible. The Ministry of Security was too strong to fall to anything but an army.

Settling on the couch he'd created for himself out of the gaudy furniture that had been there first, Habithi allowed himself a moment of regret. He had chosen a bond with potential-- disgustingly wasted, but potential nonetheless-- but he'd ruined any chance to have the potential work for him. He didn't have the charisma or way with words one needed in politics himself. He couldn't buy any of the current politicians-- he simply didn't have the funds. He couldn't blackmail and of the current politicians, because he didn't have anything to blackmail with and didn't know how to go about getting anything to blackmail with. Not that didn't require far more money than he had.

Money-- credit, as it was used here-- was something he needed, it seemed, but he didn't have any way of getting that, either. He wasn't good for much that was sellable. He could kill, maim, and warp, but the market was inundated with assassins and torturers, it seemed like. Besides, he didn't want to work for someone, that was completely counter to everything he knew he wanted, even in the short term. Balespawn were made to use others to do work for them, not to work, themselves, unless they felt like it.

So. No money, unless he or his incompetent servants somehow won a contest or lottery or something. What else could he do to gain power here, that didn't require money?

Perhaps... more servants was the answer. Better ones, with useful skills or abilities, the means to help him-- and thus, themselves-- grow in power. Only he had no way of getting any. He had no way of buying up any, without money. Those he created had an annoying habit of ending up torn to bits as soon as Netahiln found them, and probably wouldn't be worth much the way he needed them to be, anyway. He doubted he would be lucky enough to find one stupid enough to be won over by as little as it took to win over Illiot and his little collection.

There didn't seem to be an easy answer, so Habithi, heaving himself back up again to wander the room restlessly, put that aside. Netahiln was a more pressing concern, anyway, but the only thing he could think of to actually get her off his back was to kill her, and he didn't want to go quite that far yet. Anything else required money or a skill with persuasion that he didn't have.

He could leave for a while. That might throw her off, if he managed to do it without her noticing where he went. She might be able to follow him, but then... she might not bother, if he was away from her home. And it was possible that she might not notice his return, if she'd gone on with her life in the meantime. Not likely, but possible.

But where would he go? He didn't know of any other worlds, and besides, he liked Star City, with all its ready corruption there already and the boundless technology. It had not too long ago been under the thumb of a dictator, so certainly it could be done again. The comfort and convenience of the place made everywhere else seem backwards and uncivilized.

Really, though, the only other place he knew of was--

"Oh." Habithi stopped. "I should have thought of that before.... The Fate."

A place to escape for a while, a place he could easily teleport to, a place where he might even pick up a new, better servant or two.... All he'd have to do was avoid his father-- not too difficult to do, as others did it all the time-- and do what he could to stay out of trouble with the crew and Chosen, since his mother had made all of them-- himself, his brothers and sisters-- promise not to meddle with their birthplace in any way. If he hurried, he might even make the very next biotheurge.

All he could hope was that Netahiln didn't follow him again, and maybe he'd come home with the means to be rid of her at last.