"You Don't Even Know Yet"
Author's Notes: Something for Invader-Hime's annual project "Thirteen Days of Darkstar." This takes place after "War of the Worlds" but it leads into the "Time Heals" universe where the bad guys win. Because I do love me some victorious DarkCaster.
Chapter One: Sunset
"The sun's in the sky, it's warming up your back legs."
He thought once the Hero Trio made good on their offer to free him from the Null Void he wouldn't have to resort to skulking about the shadows. Then he considered the possibility that they would try to throw him back in after all was said and done. Seems like his doubt was well-founded because here he was. On the run again, with his chest heaving, his lungs burning for air, and the mouths in his palms gnashing in frustration.
Damn them all, he curses, a gauntlet-clad fist slamming against the alleyway's wall with enough force to leave an indentation. He had the perfect opportunity to regenerate himself, all those DNAliens with mana ripe for the picking coming at him by the droves. And he had begun the process of draining them dry. Except someone had to interfere and soapbox about the importance of life and shove their oh-so-honorable morals down everyone's throats.
Chapped lips curled into a sneer at the memory, baring perfect white teeth from behind the metal mask. He would have told them to shove it where the sun doesn't shine because they had bigger fish to fry. Like, say, the impending destruction of their world as they know it? Who gave them the right to deny him a last meal and the chance to go down fighting in a blaze of golden glory?
Oh, that's right, they were Ben Ten, wearer of the Omnitrix and universally acclaimed hero. They could do no wrong. If they had, it couldn't possibly be their fault, and they'd still set it right.
The sneer twists into a scowl of disgust while faded-blue eyes roll at that thought. Nothing quite gets his hackles up more than self-righteous prattling. As it stands, he was already on edge while on a short fuse from being mana-starved. He's already beginning to feel the effects of his hunger as his stomach twists itself into knots and the strength in his limbs wanes.
He presses himself flat against the grimy walls, trying to melt into the shadows, waiting for the first source of mana he could find. A drunkard stumbles into the alleyway, taking another swig from the bottle nestled inside a paper bag.
Darkstar's disgust intensifies at the smell of alcohol and urine coming off the drunk in waves. He was raised surrounded by the finer things in life. He grew up with no want for anything material because his family had the power to give him what he wanted. He shouldn't have to feed on what he considered to be the bottom of the barrel. Except he didn't have his family's power anymore and he could barely rely on his own power.
The reality of just how far he had fallen from grace causes his temper to flare and prompts his pride to reject draining the man of his mana.
But the insistent gnashing of his hand-mouths forces him to swallow said pride because beggars can't be choosers. He isn't ready to simply waste away into nothing. He will not be denied his vengeance and his grim determination prompts him to grab his victim by the back of their neck. His meal is a gaunt husk before he realizes it and though the hunger pangs continue to gnaw at him, they aren't as intense. Growling in frustration, he leaves the barely breathing man on the ground in search of more prey and for a place to stay.
He is careful in navigating the concrete jungle, making certain no one spots him as he darts in and out of the shadowy side-streets of the city. He doesn't need unwarranted attention. Which, given his attire and what he hides beneath said attire, would undoubtedly cause more than a few heads to turn.
Cautious glances over his shoulder and constant mana-signature scans ensures Darkstar that he isn't being followed. But he cannot shake off the feeling that he was being watched. And even though he wouldn't put it past them, something told him that it wasn't the Hero Trio's doing.
After feasting on a few more vagrants and sneaking down several blocks later, Darkstar is standing in front of a warehouse. The security is lax: No security cameras, no roving guards, just a meager padlock on the chain-link fence. He has enough mana in his system that he can break open the lock with minimal effort.
The warehouse doors groan as he swings them open, the sudden rush of air sending clouds of long-settled dust into the air. He doesn't wait for the air to settle as he enters, faded-blue eyes studying the half-covered parade floats, discarded stage sets, and various theatrical props left for storage.
"This will do," he decides after surveying the rest of the warehouse. The place is far enough from the city but near enough for him to find food. He supposes this place will suffice as a temporary hideout and it is temporary because it won't be long before he manages to come up with a plan to fix himself and get his revenge.
But first things first: He needs to rest. It's been a long, tiring day.
A small smirk plays across chapped lips when he pulls off a sheet to reveal a King's regal throne. Someone must have spared no expense to make this thing because not only is the piece of furniture sturdy enough to support his full weight, the cushion built into the seat and the backrest is plush and comfortable. Even when another mana-scan shows he is alone he keeps his helmet on, the feel of cold metal against taut skin both reassuring and grating. He wearily leans back into the over-sized chair, closes his eyes to rest, and soon drifts off to sleep.
His dreams are filled with visions of him in all his former golden glory, wearing no mask, and his enemies not only stripped of power but serving him. He stands smug, triumphant, every single slight and grievance paid back in full. It was wonderful.
The only thing he finds unusual is how his dream-self's seat of power is beside a second throne. But this detail is easily waved away in dismissal and he is once again focused on the fates that have befallen the Hero Trio.
"You can't deny you're looking for the sunset."
"Him?" a raspy voice sneers incredulously as dark eyes stare into the scrying orb.
"Yes, him," a sultry voice insists as painted nails point directly at the image just before it wavers back into a hazy mist.
"He seems unreliable and has far too grandiose an agenda to recruit," the raspy voice stubbornly huffs over the rustling fabric of a robe being drawn close.
Magenta eyes barely manage to keep themselves from rolling in annoyance, instead focusing on a spot over the older man's shoulder. "Anyone without ambition is no better than my golems."
"Perhaps..." he concedes reluctantly, "But we've come this far without requiring the help outside of the family."
"It never hurts to have allies with diverse abilities, Uncle Hex," fingers run through platinum locks, in an attempt to distract the older wizard from the unspoken sentiment: Isn't it obvious?
Hex narrows his eyes at his niece and brandishes his serpentine staff at her, "Fine, Charmcaster, I shall humor you your ridiculous request. No doubt you'd go behind my back and attempt to lure the leech to our side no matter what I say."
The mana witch blinks in surprise. She didn't expect her Uncle to deviate from their usual lengthy exchange before giving her his permission. It naturally raises her suspicions. She mirrors his expression and after pulling her lips into a wary smile, she attempts to pry for what the consequences will be. "You know me so well, Uncle."
"Oh I assure you it's nothing so simple as that, " the wizard chuckles cryptically before dismissing his niece.
Charmcaster doesn't know what to make of her Uncle's words. Was it a warning? Was it a threat? Whatever it was, the mana witch knew better than to lower her guard. Still, now that she's been given the go ahead, it was time to begin the first phase of her plan.
Casually, she strolls into her Uncle's library, a painted nail running along the spines of old tomes, ancient texts, and volumes until magenta eyes locks on a specific title. She smiles knowingly as she pulls out the book, idly thumbing through the pages to confirm the contents are what she wants and what he needs. She snaps the book shut, unconcerned if the bindings threaten to break and the pages spill out. The worn, aged appearance will give it more authenticity.
With the target's location in mind and the bait in hand, all she needs to do is set the trap. She knows she needs to approach this carefully. The last thing she wants is to scare him off. Or for her Uncle to discover what she really has in mind.