Prompt: Alec forgot about all the dark, dark things he did in Manticore. And maybe he's more like Ben than he's let on.
Sometimes, after a second bottle of scotch, when he's just buzzed enough (but not drunk, never drunk thanks to his revved-up DNA), Alec acknowledges that there are gaps in his memory.
He salutes the psycho doctors at Manticore for the epic mind-fuck, and purposely forgets about it.
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The girl screams, but 494 doesn't flinch. He finishes the cut and turns, flicking off the blood running down his hand as the body thumps down behind him. The dark-haired girl gapes at him, fury and disbelief and unimaginable pain in her eyes. 494 spares her a contemptuous look as he mentally adds this complication into his mission parameters.
452 is weak, unworthy. A bad soldier.
A bad soldier must be punished.
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Alec accepts the punches Max sends his way, takes her scathing barbs with a smirk and sends them back to her. It's her form of stress release, along with riding her Ninja. God forbid she show actual worry or concern in public, not even over her not-like-that boyfriend and their year-long unconsummated lust affair.
Logan would turn up, probably with a juicy story of corruption to turn into another self-congratulatory cable hack. Alec doesn't really care that much. He has an appointment tonight with a businessman's safe and an original Monet, so with any luck by Friday his wallet would be significantly thicker. He could really use a new motorcycle. Maybe re—green. Yes, green.
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Logan's blood feels thin on his hands, diluted and Ordinary. It lacks the rich thick tones of transgenic blood, smells just like every other person in the world. There's nothing special about Eyes Only. Not inside, deep, where it counts.
494 stands up, stretching out his back as he runs a practiced eye over the body at his feet. Good, not too messy, easy to clean up. He could have the place spotless and the remains dumped on the other side of town in a hour. The great Eyes Only would become just another missing person, vanished into thin air.
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Flipping his pocketknife in the air idly as he watches Max send angst-filled looks towards Logan then run away, like a scared little girl, he wonders if she's become too Ordinary. She's certainly become boring. And bitchy.
Alec's distracted from the soap opera by Janna, a curvy redhead giving him come-hither eyes by the pool table. He grins back at her, letting his eyes trace her body and appreciating the slight preen she does for him. Definitely worthy of more attention. Gulping the last of his beer, he crosses the bar to take her up on her invitation.
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494 sights through the scope, hands rock steady as he aims through the picture window into the mansion's dining room. His mark is seated at the table, unaware, sharing dinner with his wife and daughters. A perfect family setting.
The crosshairs settle on the back of his neck, right over his brainstem. A small breath, exhale, squeeze. Instant kill. There is silence for a second before 494 sees the wife open her mouth to scream, her husband's blood and brain matter spattered across her face and her linen blouse. The girls are in shock, the youngest gingerly touching the glob of father that stuck to her cheek.
His orders are no witnesses. Seconds later, the screaming stops in sprays of red.
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Alec holds back in the ring. None of these guys, these humans, are really a match for him. But the people come for a show, and Alec's learned to blend in. His looks are deceptive, and he has to account for that when he lets a hit through, when he pulls a punch so it only bruises and winds, not caves the guy's chest in.
Cage fighting brings in money, which is why he does it. Oh, and the girls that show up for the fights, that's a plus. Gives him something to look forward to. It's not that exciting, beating people up. Kinda boring actually, especially after Manticore.
Sometimes, poking at a reddening bruise or flexing split knuckles, Alec likes boring.
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Body taut with readiness, 494 waits for the countdown, watching as his prey slips through the woods. He makes no secret of his passing, crunching leaves and branches underfoot, panting slightly in the cold air. The man is a civilian, pulled in here by the trainers to "see what these kids can do." Before, they sent the whole unit in. Now, it's individual trials.
Lydecker counts down to one, and 494 is off like a shot, silent and stealthy, predatory. It's almost ridiculously easy to track the man, and 494 feels insulted when he catches him floundering through the gully not a half mile from the starting point. This man is not worthy. Not for a good soldier.
He pounces.
The man screams, just once. 494 rips out his tongue to quiet him, then proceeds, calmly and methodically, to demonstrate why he is the best.
When Lydecker sees his handiwork later, the expression on the colonel's face combined with the rich scent of fresh blood on wet leaves and soil makes 494 smile.
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Of course it's genetic. Manticore bred and trained them to be soldiers, to be killers. They need to be the best of the best – amoral, sociopathic, loyal only to duty and the mission. Any soldier showing even a hint of weakness was dragged down to Psy Ops and taken apart, scientists burrowing deep to find that unwanted spark and extinguish it.
Those who survived were reindoctrinated, that red laser burning into eyes to brand the lesson indelibly into the psyche.
493 could've been the best of them all, if his CO hadn't led him astray, forced him to flee from his home. He was a good soldier suddenly without a mission, a war to fight. He got lost, confused in the outside world away from his creators, and got careless in the bloodlust.
He became a bad soldier. So he was punished.
494 is the best. Because Manticore took the lessons learned from 493, the one with the perfect mindset, and made him to be. Even if he doesn't always remember.