Strength and Weakness

Evil's strength was also its greatest weakness.

Trent had thought about it long and hard – at least, a part of him had. The rest of his being was filled with a hunger – no, a thirst – for darkness. He had to satiate that hunger, quench that thirst.

He needed Kira.

Strange, he mused, to be so dependent on another who you hate. But he didn't hate her; he loved her. After all, without her he would never control the evil.

Without her, he could never maintain the abyss which had encompassed his soul.

He opened the door to her room – no, not her room; this was the room he had assigned to her when he first brought her here, but it wasn't hers. She would never stay by choice, he was sure.

Trent reflected on how he had come to obtain her, to have her here before him.

He had craved her for so long. The desperate desire clawed at his insides every time he thought of her, and he thought of her often. Ever since he had knocked her to the ground in that fight – the other rangers had been temporarily immobilised and, unmorphed, she was at his mercy. Luck had saved her that time, when an old memory kicked in. That memory he had neutralised, and neither it nor any other could damage him through childish emotions of his former self. The emotions which weakened him were banished.

No, when he had taken her there was no mercy; he hadn't held back, battering her to the point where she would almost have begged for her life. Almost – he hadn't gone further than required. All he needed was her, and if she were broken she would be of no use to him. Instead of killing her, he had brought her from the alley he had cornered her to this dark prison of his.

It had been weeks since that day when he had captured her, but she still ignored him as best she could when he entered, (a stubborn streak which was common of all yellows ran in her blood, Trent had decided). Only when he rasped her name, his voice quiet, distorted by desire, did she raise her head.

"Here, now." His voice never wavered on commands, and, stubborn though she was, Kira was not stupid; she came when he called her.

If Time had been froze for a while, and the figures frozen with it, they would appear to the onlooker a strangely harmonious pair, though perhaps conflicting within themselves. The girl, her clothes torn, a red cut marring her cheek, stood with a strength which seemed out of place in her broken form. The man ('boy' is too light a description here, regardless of age) was calm, but it was a numbing cold which snapped silently, almost unnoticeably, barely revealing the chaos raging within him just beneath the surface. It was the sort of image you wished could be still forever, not because of its beauty (of which this scene possessed very little), but for the fear of what would happen when you pressed 'play'.

Still, Time did not freeze itself - Trent continued to act under the influence of his cravings:

His hand moved up to her cheek, right thumb stroking the scar on her face. The same hand quickly withdrew, pulling back into a fist; the sound of impact was dull, like hitting a metal tin with a stick. The anger trapped within Trent welled up and poured itself out in a stream of steady blows. The first few minutes were soundless barring his breathing and the thuds which struck her body, but after a while Kira couldn't help her reaction to the onslaught, crying out. Trent hit her harder. When she fell to the ground and felt his foot strike one of her broken ribs, Kira screamed, really screamed. Unfazed by the sound, Trent continued – the darkness and desire was enough for him to ignore the Ptera-screams which could so easily shatter glass. Like her other sounds of pain, this only drove him to add more ferocity, more viciousness to his assault.

The malicious attack ceased only when his energy was spent.

Trent knelt down, cupping Kira's chin in his hand, turning towards him her tearstained face. She was shaking, knowing his next inevitable move. Reaching into his trouser pocket, he adjusted his position, allowing her face to slide from his grasp. When he had drawn out the knife he was sitting beside her – she was lying on the floor, deliberately facing away. He didn't care if she watched or not – this was his enjoyment, not hers. Trent's left hand slid up Kira's arm, rolling up her sleeve. His right hand made the first incision, spilling the first blood. The girl shivered again, too exhausted to fight anymore. She honestly couldn't feel the knife cutting her, not properly – the rest of her body already ached too much. Tomorrow her arm would burn, but now all she could feel was the silver-sharp sensation of metal against skin. This time, Time itself really did pass in slow motion.

"There," Trent's voice whispered as, what felt like hours after it had begun, he slid the knife away. He kissed her before leaving. It was soft, purposefully gently on her cheek, but here was little if any emotion behind it; his lips might as well have been dead.

He hated losing control like he had, but he couldn't help it; the urge had been too strong. To see her blood, feel its warmth as it stained her clothing, watch it seep through the fabric, turning yellow bonfire-red – there was nothing like it, and the exhilaration was beyond explanation. He knew that one day he would find it necessary to penetrate her flesh with more than just a blade, but for now this form alone satisfied his cravings. A part of him needed to hear her scream, and his thirst lapped up her tears with relish.

But he couldn't kill her. That was his weakness.

He had to have her. Kira's tears, Kira's blood, Kira's fear – no one else would do. But because no one else would satisfy, he needed her alive. If she died, his hunger would consume him.

Why did she have this power over him? Why her?

He hated her – she made him weak. So, so weak.

And so impossibly strong.

A/N: Haven't done anything from Trent's perspective, or really mentioning him before, so I'm not sure how this came out.

Hope you like it, though.

Please review!