The other side of kindred, by americanleaguer
Title: The other side of kindred
Author: americanleaguer
Pairings: Michael/Carson Beckett, Michael/a couple of Athosians
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 4,193
Warning: Non-con.
Notes: Well, this isn't particularly cheerful. I'm going to Hell. I'll probably see you guys there, though, so, hey! Oh, also, spoilers through Kindred 2, so if you haven't seen it yet, steer clear.
It is remarkable, when he stops to think about it-- the sheer number of beings who currently or soon will want him dead. Many of the Wraith already do, and those that do not certainly will once they figure out who has been poisoning their feeding grounds. Should that knowledge fall to the humans on those planets, they too will hate him; they have, in the larger picture, benefited from his intercession, but he is not so foolishly optimistic as to expect reasoned thanks.
The Athosians hate and fear him, and although they are a peaceful people towards other humans, he knows that they do not see him as human, and that they would kill him if given the chance. They too are inadvertently working for the greater good, but he expects no more understanding from them than he would from any other historically fed-upon community.
The humans on Atlantis hate him as well, and they have no right to do so. He will not be understanding with them and their seemingly innate xenophobia. It is one thing to expect nothing but fear and belligerence from a primitive, hunted feeding ground population; it is another thing entirely to experience the same from the Lanteans. The Lanteans are the people who made him who (what) he is now. When they pumped him full of chemicals, stripping away his memories, his hive, his very species, they forfeited any right to hate what he would become.
There is no one he can turn to, no home where he can seek sanctuary. He cannot even pretend, live a sham of a life: his features are far too Wraith for humans to see anything else and yet still far too human for any Wraith to trust.
It is remarkable, then, that he should still be alive at all. Hunted on all sides, no safe harbor anywhere, no friends or natural allies... he should be dead. In a logical universe he would surely be dead, one way or another.
This universe, happily, pays no mind to logic, not so long as there is an illogically insistent will to live striving against it. Michael may have nothing else, but this he has in abundance.
----
Lacking a life, he makes one for himself. He creates goals and strives towards them, giving himself direction, purpose, creative outlet and intellectual stimulation.
Lacking a role model whom he can emulate, he affects whatever mannerisms he pleases. He wears Wraith clothing, mostly-- the cut and material feel best on his body-- but he keeps his hair trimmed human-short. He uses small movements of his head to convey emotion and meaning, like a Wraith, but he smiles more readily than most Wraith, and more warmly than almost any.
Lacking a true species, he forces evolution's hand to make himself into what he wants. He searches relentlessly for a way to free himself of the need to feed on humans (too unreliable, too dangerous, too dependency-causing; vegetables never ran away or shot back at you), but he feels no need to change his eyes from mostly Wraith to fully human (he sees more, better) or to force his epidermis in one direction or the other (it doesn't hurt, and who cares what he looks like?).
Lacking a community, he makes his own. They are susceptible to his control, of course, but that does not invalidate them as a society. He knows that the humans think it does; the Athosians he has not yet appropriately altered tell him as much with their revulsion and blank incomprehension. But in reality he has not done anything so very different from what a Queen does with her Hive, and that is as true a society as any. Of course it may seem a little egotistical to set himself up as a Queen-equivalent (a hive-King? He thinks not-- something else entirely, something new), but truthfully that decision was made by the Lanteans.
Surely he is allowed a little egoism anyways. Oh, he is not so narcissistic as to believe that he is some sort of super-being or unparalleled genius, but he does not think he is wrong in believing that few in his position would have survived as long and as well as he has.
There is something in him, something that is not Wraith, not human, not a byproduct of the experiments done on him. It is him, the essential something that stays the same no matter what physiological or psychological state he is in. This, he knows, was the arrogance of the Lanteans. They took his Wraith-ness from him, they took his memories, but they could not turn him into a blank slate, awaiting whatever lies they wished to write upon him. They assumed-- perhaps because he was a Wraith, although he thinks sometimes that they assume it of each other as well-- that he was little more than the sum of his biochemical parts. Change the wet, sloppy mass of liquids and tissues and gases and bones, change the being.
Stupid, and presumptuous. Almost any Wraith would have felt the wrongness of it. But maybe not every Wraith would have come out of it with the ability to remake himself from the core of his character.
----
Still, it is not as though he has been unchanged.
He has not regained all of his memories from his life as a Wraith; in fact, he has not regained most of them. Much of what he 'remembers' is instinctual or subconscious. He has very little recollection of what his day-to-day life was like before he awoke in Atlantis. Who was his Queen? What was she like? What were the little quirks of his Hive? His memories are general in nature: he understands the Wraith biological caste system as thoroughly and intuitively as someone who grew up in it, but he does not know if he had any particular friends among the other workers in his Hive. After all this time, he doubts that he will ever regain most of his life.
His body, too, is a continual source of newness and surprise for him. On some level he still 'expects' his physique to be fully Wraith, and when it is not, it sometimes gives him pause.
He chooses four Athosians for the first conversion: two men and two women. He stuns them, removes their clothes, and places them on their backs on his experimenting tables. It is an unexpected pleasure to examine them. He had been so filled with pain and confusion in Atlantis that he had not even thought to scrutinize his own body. By the time he had understood the full extent of what had been done to him, he had already begun to change. Now, with these humans before him, his equipment all around him, a luxury of time, he can see how they differ from his current body, how they differ from the Wraith, how they differ from one another.
Their skin is so smooth and the tones are so saturated-- rich pinks and browns. It truly is a food-like color. He cannot see how anyone, human or otherwise, could ever fail to understand how, even disregarding all nutritional value, Wraith much prefer feeding upon humans to feeding upon other Wraith. The mere ability to do something does not make it palatable. So far as he can tell there is no biological reason why humans could not feed on other humans as well; that they do not appear to do so seems to be a cultural barrier, not a physical one.
It is with clinical interest that he runs his fingers over the stomach of one of the females. He means to feel the softness there and gauge its extent; humans carry much more body fat than Wraith do, and the females, on average, seem to carry more than males. Once he starts touching her, though, he cannot quite stop. His hands skim her flesh, roaming up to squeeze one of her breasts and down to clutch at her thigh, all the while still scientifically cataloging her human characteristics-- young, unlikely to have borne children yet, much exposure to sunlight, not much food recently.
She is completely in his power, but instead of wishing to kill her or consume her (the natural urges), his body is alive and dancing with a new desire. He does not even recognize it at first, and it is only after he forces himself to stand back, hands at his sides, ruthlessly taking stock of his own reactions, that he begins to understand.
He was aware of the human sexual drive, of course, but none of his researches could have prepared him for experiencing it. Male Wraith do not have sexual desire unless a Queen chooses to stimulate them with pheromones, readying her carefully selected genetic material donors. He had heard stories about humans fighting humans, the victors sometimes performing sexual acts with the conquered, and he had not quite understood. No Wraith would do such a thing.
Now, though, he thinks he understands. It is as though his body has taken over his mind, demanding that he relieve this pressure it has created. He is having trouble thinking properly, but on a detached level he is aware of the physical reaction: the increased blood pressure and respiration, the pupil dilation, the muscular tension.
The Athosian woman is so very pink and so very tempting. Still, he hesitates. This is not something a Wraith would do. It is, so far as he can tell, a much-frowned-upon fringe activity for humans. But then again he is not Wraith, and he has been lied to and rejected by humans. They have no use for him, and so he has no use for them or their social mores. He is a dead Wraith who refuses to die, a dead man who refuses to die; he makes his own rules here.
There are several hours to go before the effects of the stunner start to wear off. He begins to undo the fastenings of his long jacket.
----
The experience is highly satisfying, but he is not one to indulge in behavior simply for indulgence's sake. To be scientific about it he decides to try one of the males as well. His hypothesis is that his body will not respond, since he is fairly certain that this physiological reaction is a reproductively-driven one. And, indeed, when he removes the male's clothing, he feels nothing more than a mild and practical interest in the anatomy thus revealed. It is all very much softer and more rounded than Wraith anatomy, and several small appendages are lacking.
But when he turns the male over and parts the cheeks of his buttocks with fastidiously gloved hands, revealing the warm, humanly fleshy tones of the vulnerable hairless skin there, he feels a stirring sensation low in his stomach that he does not believe has anything to do with digestion.
----
It is true that giving the clone of Carson Beckett all of the memories of his original is necessary. Without the memories, Beckett would not be able to assist Michael as he should, and his ability to synthesize the appropriate compounds is of course the reason he was created in the first place.
It is also true that Michael would not enjoy this half so much if Beckett were a drone or empty shell. There would be no point in revenging himself upon someone who only wore the body and was not the man. This, however, is an ancillary consideration at best.
Beckett resists, which is tedious, but to be expected. He has far more autonomy than the converted Athosians because, unlike them, he does not contain any Wraith DNA, and it is the Wraith DNA that facilitates the mental connection and control. Michael can control the clone with his thoughts-- he is not so foolish as to house himself with a creation he cannot influence-- but it is tiring and he prefers to not resort to that unless an emergency forces his hand.
"I'll not help make your bloody mutants," Beckett snarls, backed into the corner of his holding cell. "I've seen those things you've made; they're not right, and I won't be a part of it."
"They are not the creatures you saw before. And with them we will work to kill the Wraith," Michael says, patiently. "With your help, the... transformation can hopefully be diminished." He spreads his hands generously, letting Beckett see his open palms, the lack of a feeding slit there. "We both want the same things, doctor."
"You'll turn them all into slaves. I'll not be party to the enslavement of hundreds of people!"
So very tedious. Michael summons the guards. They carry a young Athosian female in between the two of them. The face of the girl is flushed and her hair is in disarray from her struggles. Michael runs a hand along her pleasingly reddened cheek and watches Beckett, seeing nervousness and fear starting to rise there.
"You still will not help me?"
"No..." The clone does not sound as sure as he did before, though.
In one smooth motion Michael removes his blaster from its holster, swings it up, and shoots the female between the eyes. She is dead before she makes it all the way to the floor. It is too swift to do much more than shock Beckett, but Michael allows the body to remain on the floor, the pool of bright red blood slowly expanding around its head, and that ought to let the message sink in.
He knows how to make use of his advantage. Michael leaves Beckett alone with the corpse and attends to several pressing experiments. His hands shake, very slightly, and he ruthlessly digs out the roots of that sensation. He does not mind the deaths of humans: he is not them, and they are not him. He knew, from the moment the clone first exhibited resistance, that killing a spare human (or several, if the clone proved particularly stubborn; he had not thought that would be the case, though) would be the most efficient way to persuade him. But there is still something within him that trembles at it.
This is annoying and illogical, but Michael has been coming to terms with the fact that he cannot control everything he feels no matter how he tries. Not with his Wraith instincts and aggression paired with his human volatility and hormonal surges. It is always a journey of discovery, learning about his body and himself.
When he finally returns to the holding cell, Beckett's face is pale and set. Michael does not even have to mention the others he will bring here to kill if he continues to experience opposition. Beckett agrees immediately to start working.
----
Making his soldiers artificially is all well and good, but it is not particularly productive. Michael becomes interested in breeding programs again. It is very stimulating work. Genetics is a fascinatingly tricky field, although the whole thing is complicated by the fact that he has so few proper samples.
Obviously breeding humans with humans will achieve nothing of worth. He would like to see if a human female and a fully Wraith male can create a viable fetus, but none of the male Wraith he ever captures have been dosed with the mating pheromone, so they have no store of gametes. In order to obtain the mating pheromone he would have to capture a Queen, something he has yet to do.
He breeds a number of human females with his soldiers, artificially and 'naturally'. Pregnancy rates are higher when they are bred naturally. The difference is statistically significant enough to convince him that natural breeding should be used exclusively. This is messier and slightly more time-consuming, but successful impregnation is important enough to make it worthwhile. He is always careful to stun the females before they are bred; after all, this is not about torture or cruelty. It is simply science, and efficiency.
He is overseeing a breeding day in the lab, four of his soldiers working obediently, when Beckett comes in to tell him that he needs more unrefined protein with which to work. Michael is enjoying the day; none of the females had to be stunned more than once to become unconscious, none of his soldiers had been unable to perform as ordered, the sole survivor from the first batch of births is showing marked improvement and might be able to breathe on its own soon.
The pure horror that spreads over Beckett's face when he sees the four soldiers bent over the four females simply serves to improve the day still further.
Michael waits until all of the soldiers have finished up and all of the females have been moved to the recovery cells before he attends to Beckett. He finds the clone in his cell, equal parts appalled and infuriated. He is sitting with his head in his hands, but he leaps up when Michael enters, his fists balling up at his sides.
"How can ye do that? How can ye stand by so calm and... and..."
Michael laughs softly. "Why should it bother me?"
"Ye filthy bloody monster, it's sick, is what it is...!"
"Sick?" Michael walks forward until he has Beckett pinned in a corner. The clone's eyes dart wildly side to side, looking for a way to escape. It is distinctly amusing. "Sick? Do you really think so?" Michael laughs, reverberating and resonant. Beckett looks terrified. It is a pleasing look on him, and Michael feels the slow turn of his stomach again, a strange sort of heat that warms his entire midsection.
Oh.
This would not be about science or practicality. It would be about indulgence and personal pleasure (revenge, but revenge is just another form of personal pleasure). Michael considers carefully. It is high time for him to come to terms with his desires. He cannot live a life without any consideration for himself, in constant denial of his wants and, yes, feelings.
The tunic he has given the clone to wear falls away easily as he manipulates the fastenings. Beckett's chest is lightly furred and warm, his stomach slightly soft. Michael hesitates. He wishes to touch, but the modest curve of flesh just above Beckett's hips seems so defenseless-- well, of course it is, he has made Beckett to be defenseless against him, as all his creations should be. Beckett is his. He can do whatever he wants with him.
And...
"Do you realize that this is your doing?" he says, pressing a palm to Beckett's stomach. Beckett flinches hard and fails to completely smother a shout, expecting the feeding slit still. Michael shifts his hand to Beckett's side and squeezes the pliant bulge of tissue there.
Beckett stares at him with wide eyes, human-blue. "My doing? Are ye mad?"
"Oh, no," Michael says, low and purring. He is aware of how this sounds with Wraith vocal chords, and he enjoys the way that Beckett squeezes his eyes shut when he hears it, as though he can send himself elsewhere simply by wishing. "I may be many things, Doctor Beckett, but insane is not one of them." He slowly slides his hand down to Beckett's hip, then back. Beckett begins to tremble. "I never wanted-- never would have wanted this, had I remained Wraith. These... desires, they are because of what you did to me."
There are no fastenings on the pants he had given the clone, and he pushes them downwards effortlessly. He uses both hands to turn Beckett, pressing his head into the wall.
"No, no, I--"
"Shhhhh. Please, Doctor Beckett." He undoes the fastenings of his own clothing only enough to free his penis. He is pleased to see that it is already hard; his human hormones are surprisingly reliable in some respects. He nudges Beckett's legs apart with his boots. "It is time for you to experience the... I believe 'fruits of your labors' is the phrase?"
Beckett is apparently beyond words. He is trembling violently, his face screwed up and his eyes twisted shut. There is no point in speaking any longer, so Michael pushes into him. It is a good deal more difficult than he expected; he supposes that the stunners relax the muscles, and he has never before done this with a human who was not stunned. Beckett makes a number of wordless noises, and Michael forces himself to slow, burn them into his memory. This is the man who took his body from him. This is the man who took his memories. This is the man who violated him in nearly every meaningful way and would now have him dead, tossed aside like a contaminated sample in a simple experiment.
He glances down the length of his body and is momentarily entranced by the sight of his pale, hard shaft disappearing into the shockingly dark pink crevice of Beckett's buttocks, his hairless flesh pressing up against scattered dark curls. He pulls back slightly just to see himself moving in all that luxuriously edible-looking meat, and he notes with an unusual thrill that his shaft is now streaked with brilliant red.
He moves forward again, pressing in deeper, wringing whimpers from Beckett and getting his mouth close to Beckett's ear. "Think of all the Athosians I have done this to," he hisses (the number, of course, is two, and both of those stunned, but Beckett will naturally imagine that he has done this to a multitude of them, all awake and screaming). "My little gift to them, courtesy of you."
Beckett's throat works for a minute before he manages to wet it enough to speak. "M. Monster."
"Yes, well." Michael pulls back a bit and thrusts in. Hard. The air begins to smell of iron. "That is debatable. But, if so... whose fault is that? Is it the fault of the monster, or the man who made him?"
Beckett sobs, his head sliding a little further down the wall.
----
He has some small success with the breeding program, but it is insufficient. The work becomes frustrating. He is beginning to wonder if he ought to go back to perfectly artificial conversion when his spies bring him wonderful news. The Athosian Teyla is pregnant, and the father seems to be one of the Athosians already under his control-- one who had had Wraith DNA in him long before Michael ever added more. Teyla, he knows, also has Wraith DNA.
It is almost too perfect to be true. Of course genetics is an imprecise science. There is a chance that the child will be fully human, or so disabled that it will never live. But there is an even better chance that the child will be a functioning hybrid, a natural blend of Wraith and human. A more perfect version of Michael himself.
He is heartened by the news. His researches will leap ahead if he can take this child for his own. More than that... more than that, he will not be alone. He will not be the only one.
All he must do is draw out Teyla, and he believes he knows just how to do that.
----
"They'll kill ye," Beckett hisses. "When Atlantis comes for me, you're as good as dead." Beckett always gets this way when Michael gives him his injection. He believes that the syringe holds sedatives to keep him slightly more placid in his imprisonment, and he plainly resents this. Michael does not mind. It is instructive to see the breadth of emotions that the clone is capable of displaying, and it is entertaining to see the human who took his existence suffer so keenly.
"They are not coming for you."
Beckett glares at him. "Proof that ye don't understand humans as well as ye think. They'll never stop looking for me, no matter how long it takes. That's not what we do. We don't leave men behind."
"Oh no," Michael says, smiling broadly. He strokes the side of Beckett's face, enjoying the way the blood drains out and Beckett flinches back against the wall. "Oh no, I know very well that they will not come for you. I know it with great certainty."
"I don't believe ye."
"Of course not." He allows his smile to turn indulgent. "You do not have access to the same information that I do. The same... intelligence reports." Beckett is beginning to look fearful, uncertain. "Believe what you wish, but I know that they are not coming for you. Not now, and not ever."
He is sorely tempted to tell Beckett why, to see his face crumple in horrified realization, but he has not forgotten the lies they told him in Atlantis. He will never forget it. He holds the life of this clone in his hands. It is his to mold as he sees fit. It amuses him to plant poisonous doubt in the mind of the clone-- the clone who is, in effect, as much Carson Beckett as Carson Beckett ever was. He now belongs to Michael, and Michael will lie, and lie, and lie.
Author: americanleaguer
Pairings: Michael/Carson Beckett, Michael/a couple of Athosians
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 4,193
Warning: Non-con.
Notes: Well, this isn't particularly cheerful. I'm going to Hell. I'll probably see you guys there, though, so, hey! Oh, also, spoilers through Kindred 2, so if you haven't seen it yet, steer clear.
It is remarkable, when he stops to think about it-- the sheer number of beings who currently or soon will want him dead. Many of the Wraith already do, and those that do not certainly will once they figure out who has been poisoning their feeding grounds. Should that knowledge fall to the humans on those planets, they too will hate him; they have, in the larger picture, benefited from his intercession, but he is not so foolishly optimistic as to expect reasoned thanks.
The Athosians hate and fear him, and although they are a peaceful people towards other humans, he knows that they do not see him as human, and that they would kill him if given the chance. They too are inadvertently working for the greater good, but he expects no more understanding from them than he would from any other historically fed-upon community.
The humans on Atlantis hate him as well, and they have no right to do so. He will not be understanding with them and their seemingly innate xenophobia. It is one thing to expect nothing but fear and belligerence from a primitive, hunted feeding ground population; it is another thing entirely to experience the same from the Lanteans. The Lanteans are the people who made him who (what) he is now. When they pumped him full of chemicals, stripping away his memories, his hive, his very species, they forfeited any right to hate what he would become.
There is no one he can turn to, no home where he can seek sanctuary. He cannot even pretend, live a sham of a life: his features are far too Wraith for humans to see anything else and yet still far too human for any Wraith to trust.
It is remarkable, then, that he should still be alive at all. Hunted on all sides, no safe harbor anywhere, no friends or natural allies... he should be dead. In a logical universe he would surely be dead, one way or another.
This universe, happily, pays no mind to logic, not so long as there is an illogically insistent will to live striving against it. Michael may have nothing else, but this he has in abundance.
----
Lacking a life, he makes one for himself. He creates goals and strives towards them, giving himself direction, purpose, creative outlet and intellectual stimulation.
Lacking a role model whom he can emulate, he affects whatever mannerisms he pleases. He wears Wraith clothing, mostly-- the cut and material feel best on his body-- but he keeps his hair trimmed human-short. He uses small movements of his head to convey emotion and meaning, like a Wraith, but he smiles more readily than most Wraith, and more warmly than almost any.
Lacking a true species, he forces evolution's hand to make himself into what he wants. He searches relentlessly for a way to free himself of the need to feed on humans (too unreliable, too dangerous, too dependency-causing; vegetables never ran away or shot back at you), but he feels no need to change his eyes from mostly Wraith to fully human (he sees more, better) or to force his epidermis in one direction or the other (it doesn't hurt, and who cares what he looks like?).
Lacking a community, he makes his own. They are susceptible to his control, of course, but that does not invalidate them as a society. He knows that the humans think it does; the Athosians he has not yet appropriately altered tell him as much with their revulsion and blank incomprehension. But in reality he has not done anything so very different from what a Queen does with her Hive, and that is as true a society as any. Of course it may seem a little egotistical to set himself up as a Queen-equivalent (a hive-King? He thinks not-- something else entirely, something new), but truthfully that decision was made by the Lanteans.
Surely he is allowed a little egoism anyways. Oh, he is not so narcissistic as to believe that he is some sort of super-being or unparalleled genius, but he does not think he is wrong in believing that few in his position would have survived as long and as well as he has.
There is something in him, something that is not Wraith, not human, not a byproduct of the experiments done on him. It is him, the essential something that stays the same no matter what physiological or psychological state he is in. This, he knows, was the arrogance of the Lanteans. They took his Wraith-ness from him, they took his memories, but they could not turn him into a blank slate, awaiting whatever lies they wished to write upon him. They assumed-- perhaps because he was a Wraith, although he thinks sometimes that they assume it of each other as well-- that he was little more than the sum of his biochemical parts. Change the wet, sloppy mass of liquids and tissues and gases and bones, change the being.
Stupid, and presumptuous. Almost any Wraith would have felt the wrongness of it. But maybe not every Wraith would have come out of it with the ability to remake himself from the core of his character.
----
Still, it is not as though he has been unchanged.
He has not regained all of his memories from his life as a Wraith; in fact, he has not regained most of them. Much of what he 'remembers' is instinctual or subconscious. He has very little recollection of what his day-to-day life was like before he awoke in Atlantis. Who was his Queen? What was she like? What were the little quirks of his Hive? His memories are general in nature: he understands the Wraith biological caste system as thoroughly and intuitively as someone who grew up in it, but he does not know if he had any particular friends among the other workers in his Hive. After all this time, he doubts that he will ever regain most of his life.
His body, too, is a continual source of newness and surprise for him. On some level he still 'expects' his physique to be fully Wraith, and when it is not, it sometimes gives him pause.
He chooses four Athosians for the first conversion: two men and two women. He stuns them, removes their clothes, and places them on their backs on his experimenting tables. It is an unexpected pleasure to examine them. He had been so filled with pain and confusion in Atlantis that he had not even thought to scrutinize his own body. By the time he had understood the full extent of what had been done to him, he had already begun to change. Now, with these humans before him, his equipment all around him, a luxury of time, he can see how they differ from his current body, how they differ from the Wraith, how they differ from one another.
Their skin is so smooth and the tones are so saturated-- rich pinks and browns. It truly is a food-like color. He cannot see how anyone, human or otherwise, could ever fail to understand how, even disregarding all nutritional value, Wraith much prefer feeding upon humans to feeding upon other Wraith. The mere ability to do something does not make it palatable. So far as he can tell there is no biological reason why humans could not feed on other humans as well; that they do not appear to do so seems to be a cultural barrier, not a physical one.
It is with clinical interest that he runs his fingers over the stomach of one of the females. He means to feel the softness there and gauge its extent; humans carry much more body fat than Wraith do, and the females, on average, seem to carry more than males. Once he starts touching her, though, he cannot quite stop. His hands skim her flesh, roaming up to squeeze one of her breasts and down to clutch at her thigh, all the while still scientifically cataloging her human characteristics-- young, unlikely to have borne children yet, much exposure to sunlight, not much food recently.
She is completely in his power, but instead of wishing to kill her or consume her (the natural urges), his body is alive and dancing with a new desire. He does not even recognize it at first, and it is only after he forces himself to stand back, hands at his sides, ruthlessly taking stock of his own reactions, that he begins to understand.
He was aware of the human sexual drive, of course, but none of his researches could have prepared him for experiencing it. Male Wraith do not have sexual desire unless a Queen chooses to stimulate them with pheromones, readying her carefully selected genetic material donors. He had heard stories about humans fighting humans, the victors sometimes performing sexual acts with the conquered, and he had not quite understood. No Wraith would do such a thing.
Now, though, he thinks he understands. It is as though his body has taken over his mind, demanding that he relieve this pressure it has created. He is having trouble thinking properly, but on a detached level he is aware of the physical reaction: the increased blood pressure and respiration, the pupil dilation, the muscular tension.
The Athosian woman is so very pink and so very tempting. Still, he hesitates. This is not something a Wraith would do. It is, so far as he can tell, a much-frowned-upon fringe activity for humans. But then again he is not Wraith, and he has been lied to and rejected by humans. They have no use for him, and so he has no use for them or their social mores. He is a dead Wraith who refuses to die, a dead man who refuses to die; he makes his own rules here.
There are several hours to go before the effects of the stunner start to wear off. He begins to undo the fastenings of his long jacket.
----
The experience is highly satisfying, but he is not one to indulge in behavior simply for indulgence's sake. To be scientific about it he decides to try one of the males as well. His hypothesis is that his body will not respond, since he is fairly certain that this physiological reaction is a reproductively-driven one. And, indeed, when he removes the male's clothing, he feels nothing more than a mild and practical interest in the anatomy thus revealed. It is all very much softer and more rounded than Wraith anatomy, and several small appendages are lacking.
But when he turns the male over and parts the cheeks of his buttocks with fastidiously gloved hands, revealing the warm, humanly fleshy tones of the vulnerable hairless skin there, he feels a stirring sensation low in his stomach that he does not believe has anything to do with digestion.
----
It is true that giving the clone of Carson Beckett all of the memories of his original is necessary. Without the memories, Beckett would not be able to assist Michael as he should, and his ability to synthesize the appropriate compounds is of course the reason he was created in the first place.
It is also true that Michael would not enjoy this half so much if Beckett were a drone or empty shell. There would be no point in revenging himself upon someone who only wore the body and was not the man. This, however, is an ancillary consideration at best.
Beckett resists, which is tedious, but to be expected. He has far more autonomy than the converted Athosians because, unlike them, he does not contain any Wraith DNA, and it is the Wraith DNA that facilitates the mental connection and control. Michael can control the clone with his thoughts-- he is not so foolish as to house himself with a creation he cannot influence-- but it is tiring and he prefers to not resort to that unless an emergency forces his hand.
"I'll not help make your bloody mutants," Beckett snarls, backed into the corner of his holding cell. "I've seen those things you've made; they're not right, and I won't be a part of it."
"They are not the creatures you saw before. And with them we will work to kill the Wraith," Michael says, patiently. "With your help, the... transformation can hopefully be diminished." He spreads his hands generously, letting Beckett see his open palms, the lack of a feeding slit there. "We both want the same things, doctor."
"You'll turn them all into slaves. I'll not be party to the enslavement of hundreds of people!"
So very tedious. Michael summons the guards. They carry a young Athosian female in between the two of them. The face of the girl is flushed and her hair is in disarray from her struggles. Michael runs a hand along her pleasingly reddened cheek and watches Beckett, seeing nervousness and fear starting to rise there.
"You still will not help me?"
"No..." The clone does not sound as sure as he did before, though.
In one smooth motion Michael removes his blaster from its holster, swings it up, and shoots the female between the eyes. She is dead before she makes it all the way to the floor. It is too swift to do much more than shock Beckett, but Michael allows the body to remain on the floor, the pool of bright red blood slowly expanding around its head, and that ought to let the message sink in.
He knows how to make use of his advantage. Michael leaves Beckett alone with the corpse and attends to several pressing experiments. His hands shake, very slightly, and he ruthlessly digs out the roots of that sensation. He does not mind the deaths of humans: he is not them, and they are not him. He knew, from the moment the clone first exhibited resistance, that killing a spare human (or several, if the clone proved particularly stubborn; he had not thought that would be the case, though) would be the most efficient way to persuade him. But there is still something within him that trembles at it.
This is annoying and illogical, but Michael has been coming to terms with the fact that he cannot control everything he feels no matter how he tries. Not with his Wraith instincts and aggression paired with his human volatility and hormonal surges. It is always a journey of discovery, learning about his body and himself.
When he finally returns to the holding cell, Beckett's face is pale and set. Michael does not even have to mention the others he will bring here to kill if he continues to experience opposition. Beckett agrees immediately to start working.
----
Making his soldiers artificially is all well and good, but it is not particularly productive. Michael becomes interested in breeding programs again. It is very stimulating work. Genetics is a fascinatingly tricky field, although the whole thing is complicated by the fact that he has so few proper samples.
Obviously breeding humans with humans will achieve nothing of worth. He would like to see if a human female and a fully Wraith male can create a viable fetus, but none of the male Wraith he ever captures have been dosed with the mating pheromone, so they have no store of gametes. In order to obtain the mating pheromone he would have to capture a Queen, something he has yet to do.
He breeds a number of human females with his soldiers, artificially and 'naturally'. Pregnancy rates are higher when they are bred naturally. The difference is statistically significant enough to convince him that natural breeding should be used exclusively. This is messier and slightly more time-consuming, but successful impregnation is important enough to make it worthwhile. He is always careful to stun the females before they are bred; after all, this is not about torture or cruelty. It is simply science, and efficiency.
He is overseeing a breeding day in the lab, four of his soldiers working obediently, when Beckett comes in to tell him that he needs more unrefined protein with which to work. Michael is enjoying the day; none of the females had to be stunned more than once to become unconscious, none of his soldiers had been unable to perform as ordered, the sole survivor from the first batch of births is showing marked improvement and might be able to breathe on its own soon.
The pure horror that spreads over Beckett's face when he sees the four soldiers bent over the four females simply serves to improve the day still further.
Michael waits until all of the soldiers have finished up and all of the females have been moved to the recovery cells before he attends to Beckett. He finds the clone in his cell, equal parts appalled and infuriated. He is sitting with his head in his hands, but he leaps up when Michael enters, his fists balling up at his sides.
"How can ye do that? How can ye stand by so calm and... and..."
Michael laughs softly. "Why should it bother me?"
"Ye filthy bloody monster, it's sick, is what it is...!"
"Sick?" Michael walks forward until he has Beckett pinned in a corner. The clone's eyes dart wildly side to side, looking for a way to escape. It is distinctly amusing. "Sick? Do you really think so?" Michael laughs, reverberating and resonant. Beckett looks terrified. It is a pleasing look on him, and Michael feels the slow turn of his stomach again, a strange sort of heat that warms his entire midsection.
Oh.
This would not be about science or practicality. It would be about indulgence and personal pleasure (revenge, but revenge is just another form of personal pleasure). Michael considers carefully. It is high time for him to come to terms with his desires. He cannot live a life without any consideration for himself, in constant denial of his wants and, yes, feelings.
The tunic he has given the clone to wear falls away easily as he manipulates the fastenings. Beckett's chest is lightly furred and warm, his stomach slightly soft. Michael hesitates. He wishes to touch, but the modest curve of flesh just above Beckett's hips seems so defenseless-- well, of course it is, he has made Beckett to be defenseless against him, as all his creations should be. Beckett is his. He can do whatever he wants with him.
And...
"Do you realize that this is your doing?" he says, pressing a palm to Beckett's stomach. Beckett flinches hard and fails to completely smother a shout, expecting the feeding slit still. Michael shifts his hand to Beckett's side and squeezes the pliant bulge of tissue there.
Beckett stares at him with wide eyes, human-blue. "My doing? Are ye mad?"
"Oh, no," Michael says, low and purring. He is aware of how this sounds with Wraith vocal chords, and he enjoys the way that Beckett squeezes his eyes shut when he hears it, as though he can send himself elsewhere simply by wishing. "I may be many things, Doctor Beckett, but insane is not one of them." He slowly slides his hand down to Beckett's hip, then back. Beckett begins to tremble. "I never wanted-- never would have wanted this, had I remained Wraith. These... desires, they are because of what you did to me."
There are no fastenings on the pants he had given the clone, and he pushes them downwards effortlessly. He uses both hands to turn Beckett, pressing his head into the wall.
"No, no, I--"
"Shhhhh. Please, Doctor Beckett." He undoes the fastenings of his own clothing only enough to free his penis. He is pleased to see that it is already hard; his human hormones are surprisingly reliable in some respects. He nudges Beckett's legs apart with his boots. "It is time for you to experience the... I believe 'fruits of your labors' is the phrase?"
Beckett is apparently beyond words. He is trembling violently, his face screwed up and his eyes twisted shut. There is no point in speaking any longer, so Michael pushes into him. It is a good deal more difficult than he expected; he supposes that the stunners relax the muscles, and he has never before done this with a human who was not stunned. Beckett makes a number of wordless noises, and Michael forces himself to slow, burn them into his memory. This is the man who took his body from him. This is the man who took his memories. This is the man who violated him in nearly every meaningful way and would now have him dead, tossed aside like a contaminated sample in a simple experiment.
He glances down the length of his body and is momentarily entranced by the sight of his pale, hard shaft disappearing into the shockingly dark pink crevice of Beckett's buttocks, his hairless flesh pressing up against scattered dark curls. He pulls back slightly just to see himself moving in all that luxuriously edible-looking meat, and he notes with an unusual thrill that his shaft is now streaked with brilliant red.
He moves forward again, pressing in deeper, wringing whimpers from Beckett and getting his mouth close to Beckett's ear. "Think of all the Athosians I have done this to," he hisses (the number, of course, is two, and both of those stunned, but Beckett will naturally imagine that he has done this to a multitude of them, all awake and screaming). "My little gift to them, courtesy of you."
Beckett's throat works for a minute before he manages to wet it enough to speak. "M. Monster."
"Yes, well." Michael pulls back a bit and thrusts in. Hard. The air begins to smell of iron. "That is debatable. But, if so... whose fault is that? Is it the fault of the monster, or the man who made him?"
Beckett sobs, his head sliding a little further down the wall.
----
He has some small success with the breeding program, but it is insufficient. The work becomes frustrating. He is beginning to wonder if he ought to go back to perfectly artificial conversion when his spies bring him wonderful news. The Athosian Teyla is pregnant, and the father seems to be one of the Athosians already under his control-- one who had had Wraith DNA in him long before Michael ever added more. Teyla, he knows, also has Wraith DNA.
It is almost too perfect to be true. Of course genetics is an imprecise science. There is a chance that the child will be fully human, or so disabled that it will never live. But there is an even better chance that the child will be a functioning hybrid, a natural blend of Wraith and human. A more perfect version of Michael himself.
He is heartened by the news. His researches will leap ahead if he can take this child for his own. More than that... more than that, he will not be alone. He will not be the only one.
All he must do is draw out Teyla, and he believes he knows just how to do that.
----
"They'll kill ye," Beckett hisses. "When Atlantis comes for me, you're as good as dead." Beckett always gets this way when Michael gives him his injection. He believes that the syringe holds sedatives to keep him slightly more placid in his imprisonment, and he plainly resents this. Michael does not mind. It is instructive to see the breadth of emotions that the clone is capable of displaying, and it is entertaining to see the human who took his existence suffer so keenly.
"They are not coming for you."
Beckett glares at him. "Proof that ye don't understand humans as well as ye think. They'll never stop looking for me, no matter how long it takes. That's not what we do. We don't leave men behind."
"Oh no," Michael says, smiling broadly. He strokes the side of Beckett's face, enjoying the way the blood drains out and Beckett flinches back against the wall. "Oh no, I know very well that they will not come for you. I know it with great certainty."
"I don't believe ye."
"Of course not." He allows his smile to turn indulgent. "You do not have access to the same information that I do. The same... intelligence reports." Beckett is beginning to look fearful, uncertain. "Believe what you wish, but I know that they are not coming for you. Not now, and not ever."
He is sorely tempted to tell Beckett why, to see his face crumple in horrified realization, but he has not forgotten the lies they told him in Atlantis. He will never forget it. He holds the life of this clone in his hands. It is his to mold as he sees fit. It amuses him to plant poisonous doubt in the mind of the clone-- the clone who is, in effect, as much Carson Beckett as Carson Beckett ever was. He now belongs to Michael, and Michael will lie, and lie, and lie.