Title: Hate
Summary: Even after all his struggling, Praxis had still won in the end. Jak was his.
Point of View: Baron Praxis
Rated: T for Teen or PG-13
A/n: this turned out rather strange and dark for me. It was just a random thought I got in the middle of my shower. It's not as complex as the other chapters (or as well written) and I don't think tis as good as the others before it. But, meh, I guess Praxis needs some lovin' too, even the crap-tastic kind. So yeah, little AU going on here that I usually don't dabble in. Have fun and don't look at me like that.
-.-.-.-.-
Praxis watched the monster rattled in its cage restlessly with a contained amount of amusement. It wanted out. It wanted a kill.
"Good, Jak," he said, knowing it only angered the beast further. It had already relinquished that name, not being able to return to the form the title once held. No, the struggling little brat Errol had presented to him kicking and screaming in his chains, clinging to every ounce of his humanity left to him all those years ago was finally gone.
He was broken. He was dead. He had become it and it had become his.
The Baron had won, and that made it hate him.
The older man enjoyed the nights he spent, watching his creation stalk around its cell--looking for weaknesses in its defense--looking for weaknesses in him. Sometimes it would throw itself at the bars, claws alive with sparks of violet death meant for him and him alone. But the bars always won, hurling it back onto its side.
I have you, Jak. You're mine, He would think with a smile.
The beast was always hungry for its next kill--any kill to quell the constant rage it felt. He needed that rage--that drive, so he fueled in any way he could. It hated being contained, so its cage would become smaller and smaller at his request. It hated the Metal Heads he released it to fight, so each one it slaughtered was hung in its cell as a sick trophy, filling the air and choking it with the smell of death. This is what you did, the corpses told it. And it hated it.
But what it hated most of all was him.
He came every day to see it, check in on it, study its progress. It never disappointed him. Its strength was astonishing, speed staggering and bloodlust on par to only that which it fought.
And every day he knew he came ever closer to the fateful moment it would kill him.
He wasn't naïve. He knew what those black orbs meant to do to him should the chains that held it just out of reach falter for even a second. If it had its day, it would see him on the ground, the fangs he gave it slicing through his jugular and spilling the lifeblood he was so damn proud all over the ground.
Jak, or what was left of him, would kill Praxis one of these days.
And that, the small, twisted portion of his mind that had no little role in founding the project that had brought them both here in the first place told him, was exactly how he wanted it.