Author's note: Well, after seeing the Elektra movie and starting on the novelization, my muse inspired me to write this. I'm not sure how she came up with it, but, here it is. Odd, I know. Anyway, please review, hope you enjoy.
Disclaimer: I don't own, don't sue.
Typhoid was untouchable. Everyone in Kirigi's team knew that. Tattoo most of all. Kirigi had made sure of that. And that was when Typhoid had finally plunged into the insanity that clutched her mind in its tight grip.
Tattoo, a unique individual, one of five very special forces. He had endured pain to gain his power. He had sought it out, relishing the painful, precise ritual of his tattoos and their magic time and time again. He appreciated his power all the more for the pain. He was wise in Typhoid's eyes. He was beautiful in her eyes.
Just like she had once been beautiful in Kirigi's eyes.
She had been with Kirigi from the beginning. He had sought her out, young and first earning his position in the eyes of his father and the council of The Hand. She had been the treasure, and he had taken her in, keeping her under his wing, earning her for his.
And she had loved him for it. She had felt no resentment, no rebellion. She had loved him. She had shown her stubbornness, her wild streak, her independence, yet in the end, she had become almost dependant on him.
But he had looked at her with cool grace and appreciative eyes, and had corrupted her thoroughly. He had twisted her until even he would sometimes shrink back when he glimpsed her wicked thoughts of death and suffering. Still he kept her in as his, and she had loved him, loyal to him and no other.
Until he had found Tattoo, taking an interest in the young man and his secret weapons, hidden in plain sight, his guardians kept in the guise of body art. He had added the American to his little collection of oddities, recruited him into his team.
Tattoo had looked at Typhoid the way Kirigi had when she had first been taken in by him. But the American's eyes were more open, expressive, and the respect and awe in them shined for all around to see.
Kirigi had seen. Beautiful, elegant, cruel Kirigi had seen. And he had used.
He had spoken to Tattoo in private later that day. He had spoken to the latest oddity he'd discovered that had looked upon Kirigi's untouchable, little treasure, and had filled his head with thoughts that she wasn't Death's Breath, subtly nurtured the natural desire that flamed in most any male when looking at Typhoid.
Tattoo hadn't even been told her full name. He had only known her as Mary first.
It had been so pleasant to be called Mary. Just Mary, simply Mary. Like she was a perfectly normal human woman. It had caused her to nearly shudder, her breath leaving her in a hiss as her eyes slowly closed, and she drank in the sound of her name, the normal part of it, from this intriguing male.
She had known of his power, and of his willingness to endure pain for it. She had known and had admired him for it. But that night, that night after Kirigi's manipulations, after Tattoo's eyes had seen her standing on one of the balcony's of Kirigi's lavish home, after he had come to her and called her Mary and looked at her like she was a beautiful woman, not a treasured weapon or an exquisite oddity, she had loved him for the false promise of sweet pleasure and normalcy.
And then the illusion shattered. Like a beautiful, rare vase being knocked to the ground, the cracking and scattering of the pieces resounding through the halls and making one flinch at the sound.
Tattoo had reached out, almost touching her, as if to brush his fingertips against her brow. He had reached out, the action causing Typhoid to recoil from him like a frightened animal used to only beatings. Pain flickered in ethereal blue eyes, a bittersweet pain that lasted barely a second, one that Typhoid did not like.
She had fled then. Fled from an unwelcome self-loathing, from the broken illusion that she wished she could mend back together and treasure like the pain she had once loved so greatly. She had fled to the room Kirigi had given to her, for when she resided with him.
And he had been there. Kirigi had been waiting, his face a mask of emptiness, his beautiful, cold, dark eyes looking at her, and she had realized then why she had wanted the illusion so badly. Kirigi told her without saying anything, out loud, or in her mind, he had explained why she had been drawn to Tattoo, why he had subconsciously been drawn to her.
Like moths to a flame. She would kill him should he come too close, he would burn her should she shun him.
Because Kirigi no longer looked at her like he once had. When she looked into his eyes, she saw how he viewed her now - a twisted, terribly weapon. He looked at her like she was an old toy that still served its deadly purpose when needed, but no longer really wanted.
But she was still his toy. No other's. And so was Tattoo now. They were both his and his alone. His to use however he wished, and he had wished to use them like this.
Typhoid still found she loved him. It was a twisted love, just like her mind, her soul, her heart. His hands had gripped her love and twisted it just like everything else inside of her. It was part hate, part resentment, part dependence, part dedication, part need, with lust and cruelty thrown into the mixture. It tore at her insides, eating away at them like the disease in her breath and touch.
Yet the last, little bit of the motherless girl she had once been told her to run, run from Kirigi just as she had run from Tattoo, to run back to him, whispering to her that he offered pleasure and pain, but only bitter ache would be found in Kirigi now.
She had listened to that little girl in her mind, fleeing again, finding her way to Tattoo. She had seen confusion, had seen the admiring gaze in his eyes, had seen the momentary return of that pain she hated flicker and disappear. She had found in him the perfect mixture, his body art telling her he enjoyed the pain she so loved and yet he could give her the pleasure she so wanted.
Her eyes had wandered down from his, gazing at the tattoos that were his namesake appreciatively. Her eyes trailed over the different predators trapped in his skin, exploring the ink on his skin before returning up the trail to meet his eyes again.
Pride had shone through in his eyes. A strange pride to her, one that was void of cockiness or a cold confidence, but a pride that shimmered because he had earned her admiration.
Against her will, her hand had snaked out, like his had reached out to her earlier, but he did not shy away. She let the tips of her fingers trail over his body markings ever so lightly, then abruptly pulled her hand back, her eyes widening as she realized what she was doing - as she realized she had actually felt his skin, had made contact. And her blackened heart split in two when she realized the contact, brief as it was, had been exquisite.
But it had done the damage. His eyes widened as the skin she had barely touched turned a light gray. He gasped softly, and Typhoid had looked at him helplessly, her black eyes full of fear and guilt and sorrow. He had soon recovered, closing his eyes and fighting off the disease, his body able to quickly overcome the tiny amount she had infected him with.
That had been the first time Typhoid had said the word "Sorry." That had been the first time she had truly hated herself, Kirigi, and her power.
Yet Tattoo had not looked at her resentfully, or with fear or hatred or disgust. He looked at her with colder eyes, but they still showed his awe, his admiration of her, only now they were cool, tempered. He had figured out the game Kirigi was playing, and had resigned himself to his place, to hers. And he had leaned over, grabbing her clothed arms. He had let his lips touch hers, claiming her deadly kiss for himself.
Typhoid had not fought him, she had been unable too. The instinct to recoil had been overridden by the instinct to give in, and she had given him her kiss, given him her poison, given him a bittersweet pain that would try to claim his life.
He had won the battle that night. And that night, Typhoid had fully accepted her place, resigned herself to her fate. That night, they both had cheated in Kirigi's game before giving him the win, knowing they indeed beaten him.
Tattoo had become silent, cutting himself off from everyone. Even her. He had seen the looks between her and Kirigi, and he had accepted them. He knew that Kirigi owned her. He knew that Kirigi had not given her the only pleasure she had ever received in her life.
Typhoid Mary had become even more cruel, even more twisted than Kirigi had imagined she would. She had taken on a new love for pain, a new love for death. A new mission to give pain to those who didn't appreciate the bliss of life, of existing, a new mission to give death to those suffering, overwhelmed with pain.
Kirigi had continued to play with them, continued to toy with them and use them to further him and his collection among the ranks of The Hand.
Tattoo glanced over to Typhoid as they followed Kirigi into The Hand's headquarters, having been called on another mission. Their eyes met and she saw that one type of pain she despised flicker in his eyes, and she wondered if her eyes mirrored his for a moment.
Yes, Typhoid Mary was untouchable. Tattoo knew that most of all. And she wanted to love him for touching her anyway.