Author: BakshaarTheBengal PM
Bakshaar, a Bengal tiger, was taken from his home in a animal reserve to the Brainiac mother ship. Granted intelligence and pryokinesis, he is 'rescued' and mentored by the Joker. Can he be saved, or is his sanity forever lost... Rating may bump up to M in the later chapters.Rated: Fiction T - English - Crime/Drama - Chapters: 5 - Words: 3,520 - Reviews: 3 - Favs: 1 - Updated: 05-22-13 - Published: 11-19-12 - id: 8716724
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
Note: This story line is not my own. I have taken what the brilliant minds at DC Universe have given us and spun a story for my character, NukeNeko. He is a pyrokinetic tiger bent on causing destruction to find his home.
Summary: Bakshaar, a Bengal tiger, was taken from his home in a animal reserve to the Brainiac mother ship. Granted intelligence and pryokinesis, he is 'rescued' and mentored by the Joker. Can he be saved, or is his sanity forever lost...
"A savage specimen -"
"-a safe choice? It's quite-"
"-do just fine. The Master says we should start now, or-"
"-for the green light. You know the rules."
Bakshaar heard the words, and knew what they meant, but somehow he still could not understand them.
The voices were distant, disembodied, fragmented. The speakers were out of sight. Brief snatches of conversation filtered through to his sharp feline ears, laid back flat against his skull. His golden eyes, usually blazing with life and unrestrained, wild energy, were dull with fear.
He was being contained. He knew that much, even if he didn't know why.
The small cavity he was being held in was abhorrent to him in every way. It was tiny, barely big enough to stretch his lithe, supple limbs in.
The walls and floor were made of some awful hard, brown stuff that his teeth and claws could barely scratch. It was cold to the touch, and eerily smooth; almost like metal, but somehow . . . different. Metal was good, metal was normal, metal at least smelled... natural. This was all wrong, so wrong. It reeked of something horrible waiting for him. There was nothing natural about it.
His sensitive nose quivering slightly, Bakshaar raised his head hopefully for what must have been the thousandth time, or perhaps the millionth since his incarceration. He sniffed the air, hoping against hope for a breath of fresh air, but all that filled his nostrils was the sick, heady stink of... alien.
They were awful, these things. They smelled of strange metals and chemicals, of all sorts of unnatural, fabricated things that made no sense to him. Alien smells, terrifying smells. He was used to the soft, sweet smell of his territory at night, a million different comfortable scents flying through the air, mixing, intermingling and rushing through his lungs to set him at ease. The cold smell of the fresh greenery on the trees, already dripping with dew; the warm smell of the rich, earthy loam beneath his paws; the smell of the hunt; the smell of The Women.
Pictures flashed before his eyes, taunting him, tormenting him, trying to break him.
He skulking through the foliage back home, climbing over a fallen log, sneaking through the undergrowth as effortlessly as a bird soared through the air. He was on the hunt, still as a statue before pouncing, landing on The Women with playful ease. He was back with her, playing and supporting her large, upright frame with his larger, quadruped one.
A low, agonized growl slipped out of Bakshaar's throat. In raw anger, he butted his head against the only part of his new home that was not made of the awful brown stuff. No, no, the yellow was even worse. The yellow shocked him. It was the worst scent of all, sharp and acidic like blood, but nowhere near as . . . natural.
That was it. It all came back to that. Nothing here was real. It was all artificial and horrid and cruel. Bakshaar curled up into as tight of a ball as he possibly could, tucking his tail under his head and squeezing his eyes tightly shut. Perhaps, if he just went to sleep, something would change. Good things happened at night, and although he could not see the sky, he sensed that it was already dark.
Of course, his cold, dead prison was always dark. There was no sun, no moon, no stars. Nothing but the dark shadows cast by the aliens when they brought their harsh, bright miniature suns with them to prod, poke and terrify him even more.
As Bakshaar fell into an uneasy sleep, his tail twitched involuntarily, and a low, whimpering rumble sounded from his throat – the sound of abject misery.
AN: The reason he describes them as 'alien' is because he had seen humans before and knew what they were. As for the descriptions, I worked with what little of the ship you could see. Reviews are welcome.